Malcolm judged it time to interfere, and stepped into the cottage.
Duncan was seated in the darkest corner of the room, with an apron
over his knees, occupied with a tin lamp. He had taken out the wick
and laid its flat tube on the hearth, had emptied the oil into a
saucer, and was now rubbing the lamp vigorously: cleanliness rather
than brightness must have been what he sought to produce.

Malcolm's instinct taught him to side so far with the dame concerning
Mrs Catanach, and thereby turn the torrent away from his grandfather.

"'Deed ye're richt there, Mistress Findlay!" he said. "She's no to
be meddlet wi'. She's no mowse (safe)."

Malcolm was a favourite with Meg, as with all the women of the
place; hence she did not even start in resentment at his sudden
appearance, but, turning to Duncan, exclaimed victoriously,--
"Hear till her ain oye! He's a laad o' sense!"

"Ay, hear to him!" rejoined the old man with pride. "My Malcolm
will always pe speaking tat which will pe worth ta hearing with
ta ears. Poth of you and me will be knowing ta Mistress Catanach
pretty well--eh, Malcolm, my son? We'll not be trusting her fery
too much--will we, my son?"

"No a hair, daddy," returned Malcolm.

"She's a dooms clever wife, though; an' ane 'at ye may lippen
till i' the w'y o' her ain callin'," said Meg Partan, whose temper
had improved a little under the influence of the handsome youth's
presence and cheery speech.