"
"You refuse?" said the marquis; and the tone of the question was
like the first cold puff that indicates a change of weather.
"I div, my lord," she answered imperturbably.
"If they are not my property, why do you bring me this?"
"Are they your property, my lord?"
"This is my handwriting."
"Ye alloo that?"
"Certainly, my good woman. You did not expect me to deny it?"
"God forbid, my lord! But will ye uphaud yersel' the lawfu' heir
to the deceased? It lies 'atween yer lordship an' mysel'--i' the
meantime."
He sat down, holding the scrap of paper between his finger and
thumb.
"I will buy them of you," he said coolly, after a moment's thought,
and as he spoke he looked keenly at her.
The form of reply which first arose in Miss Horn's indignant soul
never reached her lips.
"It's no my trade," she answered, with the coldness of suppressed
wrath. "I dinna deal in sic waurs."
"What do you deal in then?" asked the marquis.
"In trouth an' fair play, my lord," she answered, and was again
silent.
So was the marquis for some moments, but was the first to resume.
"If you think the papers to which you refer of the least value,
allow me to tell you it is an entire mistake."
"There was ane thoucht them o' vailue," replied Miss Horn--and
her voice trembled a little, but she hemmed away her emotion--
"for a time at least, my lord; an' for her sake they're o' vailue
to me, be they what they may to yer lordship.
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