“Hoots, man! the puir body never had a taste
o’ the balm o’ Gilead in a’ ’s
persecutit life afore!”
The liberality of Mr Bigg had not been lost upon her:
freely she had received—freely she gave.
What was good must, because it was good, be divided
with her neighbour. It was a lawless act.
As soon as the benediction was spoken, the laird slipped
away, but as he left the seat, Miss Horn heard him
murmur—“Eh, the bonny man! the bonny
man!” He could hardly have meant the deacon.
He might have meant Mr Bigg, who had concluded the
observance with a simple and loving exhortation.
When Miss Horn bethought herself that night, in prospect
of returning home the next day, that she had been
twice in the company of the laird and had not even
thought of asking him about Phemy, she reproached
herself not a little; and it was with shame that she
set out, immediately on her arrival, to tell Malcolm
that she had seen him. No one at the House being
able to inform her where he was at the moment, she
went on to Duncan’s cottage. There she
found the piper, who could not tell her where his boy
was, but gave her a hearty welcome, and offered her
a cup of tea, which, as it was now late in the afternoon,
Miss Horn gladly accepted. As he bustled about
to prepare it, refusing all assistance from his guest,
he began to open his mind to her on a subject much
in his thoughts —namely, Malcolm’s
inexplicable aversion to Mrs Stewart.
“Ta nem of Stewart will pe a nople worrt, mem,”
he said.
“It’s guid eneuch to ken a body by,”
answered Miss Horn.
“If ta poy will pe a Stewart,” he went
on, heedless of the indifference of her remark, “who’ll
pe knowing put he’ll may pe of ta plood royal!”
“There didna leuk to be muckle royalty aboot
auld John, honest man, wha cudna rule a wife, though
he had but ane!” returned Miss Horn.
“If you ’ll please, mem, ton’t you’ll
pe too sherp on ta poor man whose wife will not pe
ta coot wife. If ta wife will pe ta paad wife,
she will pe ta paad wife however, and ta poor man will
pe hafing ta paad wife and ta paad plame of it too,
and tat will pe more as ’ll pe fair, mem.”
“’Deed ye never said a truer word, Maister
MacPhail!” assented Miss Horn. “It’s
a mercy ‘at a lone wuman like me, wha has a maisterfu’
temper o’ her ain, an’ nae feelin’s,
was never putten to the temptation o’ occkypeein’
sic a perilous position. I doobt gien auld John
had been merried upo’ me, I micht hae putten
on the wrang claes some mornin’ mysel’,
an’ may be had ill gettin’ o’ them
aff again.”
The old man was silent, and Miss Horn resumed the
main subject of their conversation.
“But though he michtna objec’ till a father
’at he wasna jist Hector or Golia’ o’
Gath,” she said, “ye canna wonner ’at
the yoong laad no carin’ to hae sic a mither.”
