trowth gien ye ha'e gaint the warl' i' the cheenge o' forbeirs!"

"Mint at naething again the deid, mem. My father's gane till's
accoont; an it's weel for him he has his father an' no his sister
to pronoonce upo' him."

"'Deed ye're right there, laddie," said Miss Horn, in a subdued
tone.

"He's made it up wi' my mither afore noo, I'm thinkin'; an' ony
gait he confesst her his wife an' me her son afore he dee'd, an'
what mair had he time to du?"

"It's fac'," returned Miss Horn. "An' noo luik at yersel': what yer
father confesst wi' the verra deid thraw o' a labourin' speerit, to
the whilk naething cud ha'e broucht him but the deid thraws (death
struggles) o' the bodily natur' an' the fear o' hell, that same
confession ye row up again i' the cloot o' secrecy, in place o'
dightin' wi' 't the blot frae the memory o' ane wha I believe I
lo'ed mair as my third cousin nor ye du as yer ain mither!"

"There's no blot upo' her memory, mem," returned the youth, "or I
wad be markis the morn. There's never a sowl kens she was mither
but kens she was wife--ay, an' whase wife, tu."

Miss Horn had neither wish nor power to reply, and changed her
front.

"An' sae, Ma'colm Colonsay," she said, "ye ha'e no less nor made
up yer min' to pass yer days in yer ain stable, neither better nor