“Call her your own pard, old Tuncan MacPhail, my sweet laty, and haf ta patience with her, and she’ll pe telling you aall apout eferyting, only you must gif her olt prains time to tumple temselfs apout. Her head grows fery stupid.—Yes, as she was saying, after ta ploody massacre at Culloden, her father had to hide himself away out of sight, and to forge himself—I mean to put upon himself a name tat tidn’t mean himself at aal. And my poor mother, who pored me—pig old Tuncan—ta fery tay of ta pattle, would not be hearing won wort of him for tree months tat he was away; and when he would pe creep pack like a fox to see her one fine night when ta moon was not pe up, they’ll make up an acreement to co away together for a time, and to call temselfs MacPhails. But py and py tey took teir own nems again.”
“And why haven’t you your own name now? I’m sure it’s a much prettier name.”
“Pecause she’ll pe taking the other, my tear laty.”
“And why?”
“Pecause—pecause——. She will tell you another time. She’ll pe tired to talk more apout ta cursed Cawmills this fery tay.”
“Then Malcolm’s name is not MacPhail either?”
“No, it is not, my laty.”
“Is he your son’s son, or your daughter’s son?”
“Perhaps not, my laty.”
“I want to know what his real name is. Is it the same as yours? It doesn’t seem respectable not to have your own names.”