"
"A poor, witless, unmanageable being! He's a dreadful grief to me,"
said the widowed mother, with a deep sigh.
"A bairn could manage him," said Malcolm in strong contradiction.
"Oh, if I could but convince him of my love! but he won't give me
a chance. He has an unaccountable dread of me, which makes him as
well as me wretched. It is a delusion which no argument can overcome,
and seems indeed an essential part of his sad affliction. The more
care and kindness he needs, the less will he accept at my hands. I
long to devote my life to him, and he will not allow me. I should
be but too happy to nurse him day and night. Ah, Mr MacPhail, you
little know a mother's heart! Even if my beautiful boy had not been
taken from me, Stephen would still have been my idol, idiot as he
is--and will be as long as he lives. And--"
"He 's nae idiot, mem," interposed Malcolm.
"And just imagine," she went on, "what a misery it must be to a
widowed mother, poor companion as he would be at the best, to think
of her boy roaming the country like a beggar! sleeping she doesn't
know where! eating wretched food! and--"
"Guid parritch an' milk, an' brose an' butter," said Malcolm
parenthetically; "--whiles herrin' an' yallow haddies."
"It's enough to break a mother's heart! If I could but persuade him
to come home for a week so as to have a chance with him! But it's
no use trying: ill disposed people have made mischief between
us, telling wicked lies, and terrifying the poor fellow almost to
death.
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