“I’m no sure. I may say I dinna ken.”
“Ye say ye ken whan ither fowk disna: noo naebody kens.”
“Hoo ken ye that?”
“’Cause he’s run awa.”
“Wha frae? His mither?”
“Na, na; frae Miss Horn.”
“I ken naething aboot her; but gien naebody kens, I ken whaur he is weel eneuch.”
“Whaur than? Ye’ll be duin’ him a guid turn to tell me.”
“Whaur I winna tell, an’ whaur you nor nae ither body s’ get him. An’ ye needna speir, for it wadna be richt to tell; an’ gien ye gang on speirin’, you an’ me winna be lang freen’s.”
As she spoke, the child looked straight up into his face with wide-opened blue eyes, as truthful as the heavens, and Malcolm dared not press her, for it would have been to press her to do wrong.