Gien 't warna for wee bit luggies (small ears) I
wad fain spier yer advice aboot ane 'at wants a wuman freen', I'm
thinkin'."
Phemy, who had been regarding him with compressed lips and suspended
operations, deposited her bread and butter on the table, and slipped
from her chair.
"Whaur are ye gaein', Phemy?" said her mother.
"Takin' awa' my lugs," returned Phemy.
"Ye cratur!" exclaimed Malcolm, "ye're ower wise. Wha wad hae
thoucht ye sae gleg at the uptak!"
"Whan fowk winna lippen to me--" said Phemy and ceased.
"What can ye expec," returned Malcolm, while father and mother
listened with amused faces, "whan ye winna lippen to fowk? Phemy,
whaur's the mad laird?"
A light flush rose to her cheeks, but whether from embarrassment
or anger could not be told from her reply.
"I ken nane o' that name," she said.
"Whaur's the laird o' Kirkbyres, than?"
"Whar ye s' never lay han' upo' 'im!" returned the child, her cheeks
now rosy red, and her eyes flashing.
"Me lay han' upo' 'im!" cried Malcolm, surprised at her behaviour.
"Gien 't hadna been for you, naebody wad hae fun' oot the w'y
intil the cave," she rejoined, her gray eyes, blue with the fire
of anger, looking straight into his.
"Phemy! Phemy!" said her mother. "For shame!"
"There's nae shame intill 't," protested the child indignantly.
"But there is shame intill 't," said Malcolm quietly, "for ye wrang
an honest man."
"Weel, ye canna deny," persisted Phemy, in mood to brave the evil
one himself, "'at ye was ower at Kirkbyres on ane o' the markis's
mears, an' heild a lang confab wi' the laird's mither!"
"I gaed upo' my maister's eeran'," answered Malcolm.
Pages:
482
483
484
485
486
487
488
489
490
491
492
493
494
495
496
497
498
499
500
501
502
503
504
505
506