“Takin’ awa’ my lugs,” returned Phemy.
“Ye cratur!” exclaimed Malcolm, “ye’re ower wise. Wha wad hae thoucht ye sae gleg at the uptak!”
“Whan fowk winna lippen to me—” said Phemy and ceased.
“What can ye expec’,” returned Malcolm, while father and mother listened with amused faces—“whan ye winna lippen to fowk?—Phemy, whaur’s the mad laird?”
A light flush rose to her cheeks, but whether from embarrassment or anger could not be told from her reply.
“I ken nane o’ that name,” she said.
“Whaur’s the laird o’ Kirkbyres, than?”
“Whar ye s’ never lay han’ upo’ ’im!” returned the child, her cheeks now rosy-red, and her eyes flashing.
“Me lay han’ upo’ ’im!” cried Malcolm, surprised at her behaviour.
“Gien ’t hadna been for you, naebody wad hae fun’ oot the w’y intill the cave,” she rejoined, her gray eyes, blue with the fire of anger, looking straight into his.