--But what
says yer gran'father till 't, no?"
"He hasna hard a chuckie's cheep o' 't."
"What are we haverin' at than! Canna he sattle the maitter aff
han'?"
Miss Horn eyed him keenly as she spoke.
"He kens nae mair aboot whaur I come frae, mem, nor your Jean, wha
's hearkenin' at the keyhole this verra meenute."
The quick ear of Malcolm had caught a slight sound of the handle,
whose proximity to the keyhole was no doubt often troublesome to
Jean.
Miss Horn seemed to reach the door with one spring. Jean was ascending
the last step of the stair with a message on her lips concerning
butter and eggs. Miss Horn received it, and went back to Malcolm.
"Na; Jean wadna du that," she said quietly.
But she was wrong, for, hearing Malcolm's words, Jean had retreated
one step down the stair, and turned.
"But what's this ye tell me aboot yer gran'father, honest man."
Miss Horn continued.
"Duncan MacPhail's nae bluid o' mine--the mair's the pity!" said
Malcolm sadly--and told her all he knew.
Miss Horn's visage went through wonderful changes as he spoke.
"Weel, it is a mercy I hae nae feelin's!" she said when he had
done.
"Ony wuman can lay a claim till me 'at likes, ye see," said Malcolm.
"She may lay 'at she likes, but it's no ilka egg laid has a chuckie
intill 't," answered Miss Horn sententiously. "Jist ye gang hame
to auld Duncan, an' tell him to turn the thing ower in 's min' till
he's able to sweir to the verra nicht he fan' the bairn in 's lap.
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