But Malcolm stepped back.
“Na, na, mem!” he said; “it taks twa to that!”
“Malcolm!” she exclaimed, her voice trembling with emotion—of some kind.
“Ye may ca’ me your son, mem, but I ken nae gr’un’ yet for ca’in’ you my——”
He could not say the word.
“That is very true, Malcolm,” she returned gently; “but this interview is not of my seeking. I wish to precipitate nothing. So long as there is a single link, or half a link even, missing from the chain of which one end hangs at my heart—”
She paused, with her hand on her bosom, apparently to suppress rising emotion. Had she had the sentence ready for use?
“—I will not subject myself,” she went on, “to such treatment as it seems I must look for from you. It is hard to lose a son but it is harder yet to find him again after he has utterly ceased to be one.”
Here she put her handkerchief to her eyes.
“Till the matter is settled, however,” she resumed, “let us be friends—or at least not enemies.—What did you come for now? Not to insult me surely. Is there anything I can do for you?”