“I thocht there was a bonny leddy sittin’ o’ the bed i’ the neist room, in her nichtgoon like, an’ she was greitin’ sair in her hert, though she never loot a tear fa’ doon. She was greitin’ aboot a bairnie she had lost, an’ I kent weel whaur the bairnie was— doon in a cave upo’ the shore, I thoucht—an’ was jist yirnin’ to gang till her an’ tell her, an’ stop the greitin’ o’ her hert, but I cudna muv han’ nor fit, naither cud I open my mou’ to cry till her. An’ I gaed dreamin’ on at the same thing ower an’ ower, a’ the time I was asleep. But there was naething sae frichtsome aboot that, my lord.”
“No, indeed,” said his lordship.
“Only it garred me greit tu, my lord, ’cause I cudna win at her to help her.”
His lordship laughed, but oddly, and changed the subject.
“There’s no word of that boat yet,” he said. “I must write again.”
“May I show Malcolm the library, papa?” asked Lady Florimel.
“I wad fain see the buiks,” adjected Malcolm.
“You don’t know what a scholar he is, papa!”
“Little eneuch o’ that!” said Malcolm.
“Oh yes! I do,” said the marquis, answering his daughter. “But he must keep the skipper from my books and the scholar from my boat.”