But luik at Sandy Graham!
Ye ken whether he has gumption or no; an' gien he be a stickit
minister, he stack by the grace o' moadesty. But, haith, I winna
peety him! for, o' a' things, to peety a guid man i' the richt gate
is a fule's folly. Troth, I'm a hantle mair concernt about yersel',
Ma'colm!"
Malcolm heard her without apprehension. His cup seemed full, and
he never thought that cups sometimes run over. But perhaps he was
so far the nearer to a truth: while the cup of blessing may and
often does run over, I doubt if the cup of suffering is ever more
than filled to the brim.
"Onything fresh, mem?" he asked, with the image of Mrs Stewart
standing ghastly on the slopes of his imagination.
"I wadna be fit to tell ye, laddie, gien 't warna, as ye ken, 'at
the Almichty 's been unco mercifu' to me i' the maitter o' feelin's.
Yer freen's i' the Seaton, an' ower at Scaurnose, hae feelin's,
an' that 's hoo nane o' them a' has pluck it up hert to tell ye o'
the waggin' o' slanderous tongues against ye."
"What are they sayin' noo?" asked Malcolm with considerable
indifference.
"Naither mair nor less than that ye 're the father o' an oonborn
wean," answered Miss Horn.
"I dinna freely unnerstan' ye," returned Malcolm, for the unexpectedness
of the disclosure was scarcely to be mastered at once.
I shall not put on record the plain form of honest speech whereby
she made him at once comprehend the nature of the calumny. He
started to his feet, and shouted "Wha daur say that?" so loud that
the listening Jean almost fell down the stair.
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