“He’s nae idiot, mem,” interposed Malcolm.
“And just imagine,” she went on, “what a misery it must be to a widowed mother, poor companion as he would be at the best, to think of her boy roaming the country like a beggar! sleeping she doesn’t know where! eating wretched food! and—”
“Guid parritch an’ milk, an’ brose an’ butter,” said Malcolm parenthetically; “—whiles herrin’ an’ yallow haddies.”
“It’s enough to break a mother’s heart! If I could but persuade him to come home for a week so as to have a chance with him! But it’s no use trying: ill-disposed people have made mischief between us, telling wicked lies, and terrifying the poor fellow almost to death. It is quite impossible except I get some one to help me— and there are so few who have any influence with him!”
Malcolm thought she must surely have had chances enough before he ran away from her; but he could not help feeling softened towards her.
“Supposin’ I was to get ye speech o’ ’im, mem?” he said.
“That would not be of the slightest use. He is so prejudiced against me, he would only shriek, and go into one of those horrible fits.”
“I dinna see what’s to be dune than,” said Malcolm.
“I must have him brought here—there is no other way.”
“An’ whaur wad be the guid o’ that, mem? By yer ain shawin’, he wad rin oot o’ ’s verra body to win awa’ frae ye.”