Though painful it was simple, yet of such
a nature that no one was so fit to attend to it as his mother. Alas!
instead of doing him any good, it has done me the worst injury in
the world: my child hates me!"
Again she hid her face on the settee.
The explanation was plausible enough, and the grief of the mother
surely apparent! Malcolm could not but be touched.
"It's no 'at I'm no willin' to be your freen', mem; but I'm yer
son's freen' a'ready, an' gien he war to hear onything 'at gart
him mislippen till me, it wad gang to my hert."
"Then you can judge what I feel!" said the lady.
"Gien it wad hale your hert to hurt mine, I wad think aboot it,
mem; but gien it hurtit a' three o' 's, and did guid to nane, it
wad be a misfit a'thegither. I'll du naething till I'm doonricht
sure it's the pairt o' a freen'."
"That's just what makes you the only fit person to help me that I
know. If I were to employ people in the affair, they might be rough
with the poor fellow."
"Like eneuch, mem," assented Malcolm, while the words put him afresh
on his guard.
"But I might be driven to it," she added.
Malcolm responded with an unuttered vow.
"It might become necessary to use force--whereas you could lead
him with a word."
"Na; I'm naither sic witch nor sic traitor."
"Where would be the treachery when you knew it would be for his
good?"
"That's jist what I dinna ken, mem," retorted Malcolm. "Luik ye
here, mem," he continued, rousing himself to venture an appeal to
the mother's heart; "--here's a man it has pleased God to mak no
freely like ither fowk.
Pages:
329
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337
338
339
340
341
342
343
344
345
346
347
348
349
350
351
352
353