"There can be little doobt they hae gotten a grip o' 'm at last,
puir fallow!" said Joseph. "But whatever 's come till him, we
canna sit doon an' ait oor mait ohn kent hoo Phemy 's farin, puir
wee lamb! Ye maun jist haud awa' ower to Kirkbyres, Ma'colm, an'
get word o' yer mither, an' see gien onything can be made oot o'
her."
The proposal fell on Malcolm like a great billow.
"Blue Peter," he said, looking him in the face, "I took it as a
mark o' yer freen'ship 'at ye never spak the word to me. What richt
has ony man to ca' that wuman my mither? I hae never allooed it!"
"I 'm thinkin'," returned Joseph, the more easily nettled that
his horizon also was full of trouble, "your word upo' the maitter
winna gang sae far 's John o' Groat's. Ye 'll no be suppeent for
your witness upo' the pint."
"I wad as sune gang a mile intill the mou' o' hell, as gang to
Kirkbyres!" said Malcolm.
"I hae my answer," said Peter, and turned away.
"But I s' gang," Malcolm went on. "The thing 'at maun be can be.
--Only I tell ye this, Peter," he added, "gien ever ye say sic a
word 's yon i' my hearin' again, that is, afore the wuman has priven
hersel' what she says, I s' gang by ye ever efter ohn spoken, for
I'll ken ''at ye want nae mair o' me."
Joseph, who had been standing with his back to his friend, turned
and held out his hand. Malcolm took it.
"Ae question afore I gang, Peter," he said. "What for didna ye tell
me what fowk was sayin' aboot me--anent Lizzy Findlay?"
"'Cause I didna believe a word o' 't, an' I wasna gaein' to add to
yer troubles.
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