“And what would pe ta harm with ta mother? Will she not pe a coot woman, and a coot letty more to ta bargain?”
“Ye ken what fowk says till her guideship o’ her son?”
“Yes; put tat will pe ta lies of ta peoples. Ta peoples wass always telling lies.”
“Weel, allooin’, it’s a peety ye sudna ken, supposin’ him to be hers, hoo sma’ fowk hauds the chance o’ his bein’ a Stewart, for a’ that!”
“she’ll not pe comprestanding you,” said Duncan, bewildered.
“He’s a wise son ’at kens his ain faither!” remarked Miss Horn, with more point than originality. “The leddy never bore the best o’ characters, as far ’s my memory taks me,—an’ that’s back afore John an’ her was merried ony gait. Na, na; John Stewart never took a dwaum ’cause Ma’colm MacPhail was upo’ the ro’d.”
Miss Horn was sufficiently enigmatical; but her meaning had at length, more through his own reflection than her exposition, dawned upon Duncan. He leaped up with a Gaelic explosion of concentrated force, and cried,
“Ta woman is not pe no mothers to Tuncan’s poy!”
“Huly, huly, Mr MacPhail!” interposed Miss Horn, with good-natured revenge; “it may be naething but fowk’s lees, ye ken.”
“Ta woman tat ta peoples will pe telling lies of her, wass not pe ta mother of her poy Malcolm. Why tidn’t ta poy tell her ta why tat he wouldn’t pe hafing her?”