"That's true laddie; and the mair mither the fauser! There's a warl'
o' witness i' your face 'at gien she be yer mither, the markis, an
no puir honest hen peckit John Stewart, was the father o' ye.--
The Lord forgie' me! what am I sayin'!" adjected Miss Horn, with
a cry of self accusation, when she saw the pallor that overspread
the countenance of the youth, and his head drop upon his bosom: the
last arrow had sunk to the feather. "It's a' havers, ony gait," she
quickly resumed. "I div not believe ye hae ae drap o' her bluid i'
the body o' ye, man. But," she hurried on, as if eager to obliterate
the scoring impression of her late words--"that she's been sayin'
't, there can be no mainner o' doot. I saw her mysel' rinnin' aboot
the toon, frae ane till anither, wi' her lang hair doon the lang
back o' her, an' fleein' i' the win', like a body dementit. The
only question is, whether or no she believes 't hersel'."
"What cud gar her say 't gien she didna believe 't?"
"Fowk says she expecs that w'y to get a grip o' things oot o' the
han's o' the puir laird's trustees: ye wad be a son o' her ain,
cawpable o' mainagin' them. But ye dinna tell me she's never been
at yersel' aboot it?"
"Never a blink o' the ee has passed atween's sin' that day I gaed
till Gersefell, as I tellt ye, wi' a letter frae the markis. I
thoucht I was ower mony for her than: I wonner she daur be at me
again."
"She 's daurt her God er' noo, an' may weel daur you.
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