"
"Arena ye some wissin' ye hadna taen muckle mair yersel, Peter?"
"'Deed am I! But gien he be giftit like that ye say, what for didna
he try to haud 's richt?"
"Maybe he thoucht ye wad mak yer mistaks better wantin' him."
"Weel, ye dinna ca' that freenly!"
"What for no? I hae h'ard him say fowk canna come richt 'cep' by
haein' room to gang wrang. But jist ye gang till him noo. Maybe
he'll open mair een i' yer heids nor ye kent ye had."
"Weel, maybe we micht du waur. I s' mention the thing to Bow o'
meal an' Jeames Gentle, an' see what they say--There's nae guid
to be gotten o' gaein' to the minister, ye see: there's naething
in him, as the saw says, but what the spune pits intill him."
With this somewhat unfavourable remark, Blue Peter turned homewards.
Malcolm went slowly back to his room, his tallow candle, and his
volume of Gibbon.
He read far into the night, and his candle was burning low in the
socket. Suddenly he sat straight up in his chair, listening: he
thought he heard a sound in the next room--it was impossible even
to imagine of what--it was such a mere abstraction of sound. He
listened with every nerve, but heard nothing more; crept to the
door of the wizard's chamber, and listened again; listened until
he could no longer tell whether he heard or not, and felt like a
deaf man imagining sounds; then crept back to his own room and went
to bed--all but satisfied that, if it was anything, it must have
been some shaking window or door he had heard.
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