"The puir laird's gane back to his," said Malcolm. "I won'er gien he
kens yet, or gien he gangs speirin' at ilk ane he meets gien he can
tell him whaur he cam frae. He's mad nae mair, ony gait."

"How? Will he pe not tead? Ta poor lairt! Ta poor maad lairt!"

"Ay, he's deid: maybe that's what'll be troublin' yer sicht, daddy."

"No, my son. Ta maad lairt was not ferry maad, and if he was maad
he was not paad, and it was not ta plame of him: he was coot always,
howefer."

"He wass that, daddy."

"But it will pe something ferry paad, and it will pe efer troubling
her speerit. When she'll pe take ta pipes to pe amusing herself, and
will plow 'Till an crodh a' Dhonnaehaidh' ('Turn the Cows, Duncan'),
out will pe come' Cumhadh an fhir mhoir' ('The Lament of the Big
Man'). Aal is not well, my son."

"Weel, dinna distress yersel', daddy. Lat come what wull come.
Foreseein' 's no forefen'in'. Ye ken yersel' at mony 's the time the
seer has broucht the thing on by tryin' to haud it aff."

"It will be true, my son. Put it would aalways haf come."

"Nae doubt. Sae ye jist come in wi' me, daddy, an' sit doon by the ha'
fire, an' I'll come to ye as sune's I've been to see 'at the maister
disna want me. But ye'll better come up wi' me to my room first," he