“Not now, my boy. You have got one thing to mind now—before all other things—namely, that you give this woman—whatever she be—fair play: if she be your mother, as such you must take her, that is, as such you must treat her.”
“Ye’re richt, sir,” returned Malcolm, and rose.
“Come back to me,” said Mr Graham, “with whatever news you gather.”
“I will, sir,” answered Malcolm, and went to find Miss Horn. He was shown into the little parlour, which, for all the grander things he had been amongst of late, had lost nothing of its first charm. There sat Miss Horn.
“Sit doon, Ma’colm,” she said gruffly.
“Hae ye h’ard onything, mem?” asked Malcolm, standing.
“Ower muckle,” answered Miss Horn, with all but a scowl. “Ye been ower to Gersefell, I reckon.”
“Forbid it!” answered Malcolm. “Never till this hoor—or at maist it’s nae twa sin’ I h’ard the first cheep o’ ’t, an’ that was frae Meg Partan. To nae human sowl hae I made mention o’ ’t yet ’cep’ Maister Graham: to him I gaed direck.”
“Ye cudna hae dune better,” said the grim woman, with relaxing visage.
“An’ here I am the noo, straucht frae him, to beg o’ you, Miss Horn, to tell me the trowth o’ the maitter.”