“He kens nae mair aboot whaur I come frae, mem, nor your Jean, wha’s hearkenin’ at the keyhole this verra meenute.”
The quick ear of Malcolm had caught a slight sound of the handle, whose proximity to the keyhole was no doubt often troublesome to Jean.
Miss Horn seemed to reach the door with one spang. Jean was ascending the last step of the stair with a message on her lips concerning butter and eggs. Miss Horn received it, and went back to Malcolm.
“Na; Jean wadna du that,” she said quietly.
But she was wrong, for, hearing Malcolm’s words, Jean had retreated one step down the stair, and turned.
“But what’s this ye tell me aboot yer gran’father, honest man,” Miss Horn continued.
“Duncan MacPhail’s nae bluid o’ mine—the mair’s the pity!” said Malcolm sadly—and told her all he knew.
Miss Horn’s visage went through wonderful changes as he spoke.
“Weel, it is a mercy I hae nae feelin’s!” she said when he had done.
“Ony wuman can lay a claim till me ’at likes, ye see,” said Malcolm.