“Phemy! Phemy!” said her mother. “For shame!”
“There’s nae shame intill ’t,” protested the child indignantly.
“But there is shame intill ’t,” said Malcolm quietly, “for ye wrang an honest man.”
“Weel, ye canna deny,” persisted Phemy, in mood to brave the evil one himself, “’at ye was ower at Kirkbyres on ane o’ the markis’s mears, an’ heild a lang confab wi’ the laird’s mither!”
“I gaed upo’ my maister’s eeran’,” answered Malcolm.
“Ow, ay! I daursay!—But wha kens—wi’ sic a mither!”
She burst out crying, and ran into the street.
Malcolm understood it now.
“She’s like a’ the lave (rest)!” he said sadly, turning to her mother.
“I’m jist affrontit wi’ the bairn!” she replied, with manifest annoyance in her flushed face.