At the word hypocrisy, Mr Crathie's face grew red as the sun in
a fog. He was an elder of the kirk, and had family worship every
night as regularly as his toddy. So the word was as offensive and
insolent as it was foolish and inapplicable. He would have turned
Malcolm adrift on the spot, but that he remembered--not the favour
of the late marquis for the lad--that was nothing to the factor
now: his lord under the mould was to him as if he had never been
above it--but the favour of the present marchioness, for all in
the house knew that she was interested in him. Choking down therefore
his rage and indignation, he said sternly;

"Malcolm, you have two enemies--a long tongue, and a strong
conceit. You have little enough to be proud of, my man, and the
less said the better. I advise you to mind what you're about, and
show suitable respect to your superiors, or as sure as judgment
you'll go back to fish guts."

While he spoke, Malcolm had been smoothing Kelpie all over with his
palms; the moment the factor ceased talking, he ceased stroking,
and with one arm thrown over the mare's back, looked him full in
the face.

"Gien ye imaigine, Maister Crathie," he said, "'at I coont it ony
rise i' the warl' 'at brings me un'er the orders o' a man less
honest than he micht be, ye're mista'en. I dinna think it's pride
this time; I wad ile Blue Peter's lang butes till him, but I winna
lee for ony factor atween this an' Davy Jones."

It was too much. Mr Crathie's feelings overcame him, and he was