"I canna help ye, mem," he said; "I daurna. I hae sic a regaird
for yer son 'at afore I wad du onything to hairm him, I wad hae my
twa han's chappit frae the shackle bane."
"Surely, my dear Mr MacPhail," returned the lady in her most
persuasive tones, and with her sweetest smile, "you cannot call it
harming a poor idiot to restore him to the care of his own mother!"
"That's as it turnt oot," rejoined Malcolm. "But I'm sure o' ae
thing, mem, an' that is, 'at he's no sae muckle o' an eediot as
some fowk wad hae him."
Mrs Stewart's face fell, she turned from him, and going back to
her seat hid her face in her handkerchief.
"I'm afraid," she said sadly, after a moment, "I must give up my
last hope: you are not disposed to be friendly to me, Mr MacPhail;
you too have been believing hard things of me."
"That's true; but no frae hearsay alane," returned Malcolm. "The
luik o' the puir fallow whan he but hears the chance word mither,
's a sicht no to be forgotten. He grips his lugs atween 's twa
han's, an' rins like a colley wi' a pan at 's tail. That couldna
come o' naething."
Mrs Stewart hid her face on the cushioned arm of the settee, and
sobbed. A moment after she sat erect again, but languid and red
eyed, saying, as if with sudden resolve:
"I will tell you all I know about it, and then you can judge for
yourself. When he was a very small child, I took him for advice
to the best physicians in London and Paris: all advised a certain
operation which had to be performed for consecutive months, at
intervals of a few days.
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