He was shown into a room where the fire had not been many minutes
lighted. It had long narrow windows, over which the ivy had grown
so thick, that he was in it some moments ere he saw through the
dusk that it was a library--not half the size of that at Lossie
House, but far more ancient, and, although evidently neglected,
more study-like.
A few minutes passed, then the door softly opened, and Mrs Stewart
glided swiftly across the floor with outstretched arms.
"At last!" she said, and would have clasped him to her bosom.
But Malcolm stepped back.
"Na, na, mem!" he said; "it taks twa to that!"
"Malcolm!" she exclaimed, her voice trembling with emotion--of
some kind.
"Ye may ca' me your son, mem, but I ken nae gr'un' yet for ca'in'
you my--"
He could not say the word.
"That is very true, Malcolm," she returned gently; "but this
interview is not of my seeking. I wish to precipitate nothing. So
long as there is a single link, or half a link even, missing from
the chain of which one end hangs at my heart--"
She paused, with her hand on her bosom, apparently to suppress
rising emotion. Had she had the sentence ready for use?
"I will not subject myself," she went on, "to such treatment as
it seems I must look for from you. It is hard to lose a son but it
is harder yet to find him again after he has utterly ceased to be
one."
Here she put her handkerchief to her eyes.
"Till the matter is settled, however," she resumed, "let us be
friends--or at least not enemies.
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