“Ye wad tell yer father, wadna ye?” he said kindly.
“My father wadna speir. My father’s a guid man.”
“Weel, Phemy, though ye winna trust me—supposin’ I was to trust you?”
“Ye can du that gien ye like.”
“An’ ye winna tell?”
“I s’ mak nae promises. It’s no trustin’, to gar me promise.”
“Weel, I wull trust ye.—Tell the laird to haud weel oot o’ sicht for a whilie.”
“He’ll du that,” said Phemy.
“An’ tell him gien onything befa’ him, to sen’ to Miss Horn, for Ma’colm MacPhail may be oot wi’ the boats.—Ye winna forget that?”
“I’m no lickly to forget it,” answered Phemy, apparently absorbed in boring a hole in a haddock’s eye with a pin so bent as to act like a brace and bit.