"I wadna hae ye lippen till me afore ye had my word," said Malcolm.
"I may use my own judgment about that," she replied, with another
winning smile. "But oblige me by taking a glass of wine."
She rose and approached the decanters.
"'Deed no, mem I'm no used till 't, an' it micht jummle my
jeedgement," said Malcolm, who had placed himself on the defensive
from the first, jealous of his own conduct as being the friend of
the laird.
At his second refusal the cloud again crossed the lady's brow, but
her smile did not vanish. Pressing her hospitality no more, she
resumed her seat.
"My lord tells me," she said, folding a pair of lovely hands on
her lap, "that you see my poor unhappy boy sometimes."
"No sae dooms (absolutely) unhappy, mem!" said Malcolm; but she
went on without heeding the remark.
"And that you rescued him not long ago from the hands of ruffians."
Malcolm made no reply.
"Everybody knows," she continued, after a slight pause, "what an
unhappy mother I am. It is many years since I lost the loveliest
infant ever seen, while my poor Stephen was left to be the mockery
of every urchin in the street!"
She sighed deeply, and one of the fair hands took a hand kerchief
from a work table near.
"No in Portlossie, mem," said Malcolm. "There's verra feow o' them
so hard hertit or so ill mainnert. They're used to seein' him at the
schuil, whaur he shaws himsel' whiles; an' he 's a great favourite
wi' them, for he's ane o' the best craturs livin'.
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