“Naither mair nor less than that ye’re the father o’ an oonborn wean,” answered Miss Horn.
“I dinna freely unnerstan’ ye,” returned Malcolm, for the unexpectedness of the disclosure was scarcely to be mastered at once.
I shall not put on record the plain form of honest speech whereby she made him at once comprehend the nature of the calumny. He started to his feet, and shouted “Wha daur say that?” so loud that the listening Jean almost fell down the stair.
“Wha sud say ’t but the lassie hersel’?” answered Miss Horn simply. “She maun hae the best richt to say wha’s wha.”
“It wad better become onybody but her,” said Malcolm.
“What mean ye there, laddie?” cried Miss Horn, alarmed.
“’At nane cud ken sae weel ’s hersel’ it was a damned lee. Wha is she?”
“Wha but Meg Partan’s Lizzy!”
“Puir lassie! is that it?—Eh, but I’m sorry for her! She never said it was me. An’ whaever said it, surely ye dinna believe ’t o’ me, mem?”
“Me believe ’t! Malcolm MacPhail, wull ye daur insult a maiden wuman ’at’s stude clear o’ reproch till she’s lang past the danger o’ ’t? It’s been wi’ unco sma’ diffeeclety, I maun alloo, for I haena been led into ony temptation!”