"
"It's his leeberty, mem--jist his leeberty; to gang whaur he lists
like the win'; to turn his face whaur he wull i' the mornin', an'
back again at nicht gien he likes; to wan'er--"
"Back where?" interrupted the mother, a little too eagerly.
"Whaur he likes, mem--I cudna say whaur wi' ony certainty. But
aih! he likes to hear the sea moanin', an' watch the stars sheenin'!
--There's a sicht o' oondevelopit releegion in him, as Maister
Graham says; an' I du not believe 'at the Lord 'll see him wranged
mair nor 's for 's guid. But it's my belief, gien ye took the
leeberty frae the puir cratur, ye wad kill him."
"Then you won't help me!" she cried despairingly. "They tell me
you are an orphan yourself--and yet you will not take pity on a
childless mother!--worse than childless, for I had the loveliest
boy once--he would be about your age now, and I have never had
any comfort in life since I lost him. Give me my son, and I will
bless you--love you."
As she spoke she rose, and approaching him gently, laid a hand on
his shoulder. Malcolm trembled, but stood his mental ground.
"'Deed, mem, I can an' wull promise ye naething!" he said. "Are ye
to play a man fause 'cause he's less able to tak care o' himsel'
than ither fowk? Gien I war sure 'at ye cud mak it up, an' 'at
he would be happy wi' ye efterhin, it micht be anither thing; but
excep' ye garred him, ye cudna get him to bide lang eneuch for ye
to try--an' syne (even then) he wad dee afore ye hed convenced
him.
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