"
"He'll du that," said Phemy.
"An' tell him gien onything befa' him, to sen' to Miss Horn, for
Ma'colm MacPhail may be oot wi' the boats.--Ye winna forget that?"
"I'm no lickly to forget it," answered Phemy, apparently absorbed
in boring a hole in a haddock's eye with a pin so bent as to act
like a brace and bit.
"Ye'll no get yer string o' beads in time for the weddin', Phemy,"
remarked Malcolm, going on to talk from a desire to give the child
a feeling of his friendliness.
"Ay will I--fine that," she rejoined.
"Whan is 't to be?"
"Ow, neist Setterday. Ye'll be comin' ower?"
"I haena gotten a call."
"Ye 'll be gettin ane.
"Div ye think they'll gie me ane?"
"As sune 's onybody.--Maybe by that time I'll be able to gie ye
some news o' the laird."
"There's a guid lassie!"
"Na, na; I'm makin' nae promises," said Phemy.
Malcolm left her and went to find her father, who, although it
was Sunday, was already "oot aboot," as she had said. He found him
strolling in meditation along the cliffs. They had a little talk
together, but Joseph knew nothing of the laird.
Malcolm took Lossie House on his way back, for he had not yet seen
the marquis, to whom he must report his adventures of the night
before. The signs of past revelling were plentifully visible as he
approached the house. The marquis was not yet up, but Mrs Courthope
undertaking to send him word as soon as his lordship was to be
seen, he threw himself on the grass and waited--his mind occupied
with strange questions, started by the Sunday coming after such a
Saturday--among the rest, how God could permit a creature to be
born so distorted and helpless as the laird, and then permit him
to be so abused in consequence of his helplessness.
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