“Guid, respectable fowk, my lord.”
“Then there’s not much harm in them?”
“There’s nane but what they wad fain be rid o’. I canna say as muckle for a’ ’at hings on to them. There’s o’ them, nae doobt, wha wad fain win to h’aven ohn left their sins ahin’ them; but they get nae encouragement frae Maister MacLeod. Blue Peter, ’at gangs oot wi’ ’s i’ yer lordship’s boat—he’s ane o’ their best men— though he never gangs ayont prayin’, I’m tauld.”
“Which is far enough, surely,” said his lordship, who, belonging to the Episcopal church, had a different idea concerning the relative dignities of preaching and praying.
“Ay, for a body’s sel’, surely; but maybe no aye eneuch for ither fowk,” answered Malcolm, always ready after his clumsy fashion.
“Have you been to any of these meetings?”
“I was at the first twa, my lord.”
“Why not more?”
“I didna care muckle aboot them, an’ I hae aye plenty to du. Besides, I can get mair oot o’ Maister Graham wi’ twa words o’ a queston nor the haill crew o’ them could tell me atween this an’ eternity.”
“Well, I am going to trust you,” said the marquis slowly, with an air of question rather than of statement.