It's whan naebody kens whaur he is, that I ken, an' gang till him."
"Is he i' the hoose?"
"Na, he's no i' the hoose."
"Whaur is he than, Phemy?" said Malcolm coaxingly. "There's ill
fowk aboot 'at's efter deein' him an ill turn."
"The mair need no to tell!" retorted Phemy.
"But I want to tak care 'o 'im. Tell me whaur he is, like a guid
lassie, Phemy."
"I'm no sure. I may say I dinna ken."
"Ye say ye ken whan ither fowk disna: noo naebody kens."
"Hoo ken ye that?"
"'Cause he's run awa."
"Wha frae? His mither?"
"Na, na; frae Miss Horn."
"I ken naething aboot her; but gien naebody kens, I ken whaur he
is weel eneuch."
"Whaur than? Ye'll be duin' him a guid turn to tell me."
"Whaur I winna tell, an' whaur you nor nae ither body s' get him.
An' ye needna speir, for it wadna be richt to tell; an' gien ye
gang on speirin', you an' me winna be lang freen's."
As she spoke, the child looked straight up into his face with wide
opened blue eyes, as truthful as the heavens, and Malcolm dared
not press her, for it would have been to press her to do wrong.
"Ye wad tell yer father, wadna ye?" he said kindly.
"My father wadna speir. My father's a guid man."
"Weel, Phemy, though ye winna trust me--supposin' I was to trust
you?"
"Ye can du that gien ye like."
"An' ye winna tell?"
"I s' mak nae promises. It's no trustin', to gar me promise."
"Weel, I wull trust ye.--Tell the laird to haud weel oot o' sicht
for a while.
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