Mr Stewart was on his feet instantly.
“I maun awa’. Tak care o’ Phemy,” he said hurriedly.
“Na, na, sir,” said Malcolm, laying his hand on his arm; “there’s nae sic hurry. As lang ’s I’m here ye may sit still; an’, as far ’s I ken, naebody’s fun’ the w’y in but mysel’, an’ that was yer am wyte (blame), laird. But ye hae garred mair fowk nor me luik, an’ that’s the pity o’ ’t.”
“I tauld ye, sir, ye sudna cry oot,” said Phemy.
“I couldna help it,” said Stewart apologetically.
“Weel, ye sudna ha’ gane near them again,” persisted the little woman.
“Wha kent but they kent whaur I cam frae?” persisted the laird.
“Sit ye doon, sir, an’ lat’s hae a word aboot it,” said Malcolm cheerily.
The laird cast a doubting look at Phemy.
“Ay, sit doon,” said Phemy.