“I dinna believe ae word o’ ’t, laddie,” answered Miss Horn eagerly. “Wha cud believe sic a fine laad come o’ sic a fause mither?”
“She micht be ony body’s mither, an’ fause tu,” said Malcolm gloomily.
“That’s true laddie; and the mair mither the fauser! There’s a warl’ o’ witness i’ your face ’at gien she be yer mither, the markis, an no puir honest hen-peckit John Stewart, was the father o’ ye.— The Lord forgie me! what am I sayin’!” adjected Miss Horn, with a cry of self-accusation, when she saw the pallor that overspread the countenance of the youth, and his head drop upon his bosom: the last arrow had sunk to the feather. “It’s a’ havers, ony gait,” she quickly resumed. “I div not believe ye hae ae drap o’ her bluid i’ the body o’ ye, man. But,” she hurried on, as if eager to obliterate the scoring impression of her late words—“that she’s been sayin’ ’t, there can be no mainner o’ doot. I saw her mysel’ rinnin’ aboot the toon, frae ane till anither, wi’ her lang hair doon the lang back o’ her, an’ fleein’ i’ the win’, like a body dementit. The only queston is, whether or no she believes ’t hersel’.”
“What cud gar her say ’t gien she didna believe ’t?”
“Fowk says she expecs that w’y to get a grip o’ things oot o’ the han’s o’ the puir laird’s trustees: ye wad be a son o’ her ain, cawpable o’ mainagin’ them. But ye dinna tell me she’s never been at yersel’ aboot it?”
“Never a blink o’ the ee has passed atween ’s sin’ that day I gaed till Gersefell, as I tellt ye, wi’ a letter frae the markis. I thoucht I was ower mony for her than: I wonner she daur be at me again.”
“She’s daurt her God er’ noo, an’ may weel daur you.—But what says yer gran’father till ’t, no?”
“He hasna hard a chuckie’s cheep o’ ’t.”
“What are we haverin’ at than! Canna he sattle the maitter aff han’?”
Miss Horn eyed him keenly as she spoke.