“Ye lay at the Salmon, didna ye?”
“Yes, mem, and they wass coot to her.”
“Wha drest the bairn till ye?”
“Och! she’ll trest him herself,” said Duncan, still jealous of the women who had nursed the child.
“But no aye?” suggested Miss Horn.
“Mistress Partan will pe toing a coot teal of tressing him, sometimes. Mistress Partan is a coot ’oman when she’ll pe coot—fery coot when she’ll pe coot.”
Here Malcolm entered, and Miss Horn told him what she had seen of the laird, and gathered concerning him.
“That luiks ill for Phemy,” remarked Malcolm, when she had described his forlorn condition. “She canna be wi’ ’im, or he wadna be like that. Hae ye onything by w’y o’ coonsel, mem?”
“I wad coonsel a word wi’ the laird himsel’—gien ’t be to be gotten. He mayna ken what’s happent her, but he may tell ye the last he saw o’ her, an’ that maun be mair nor ye ken.”
“He’s taen sic a doobt o’ me ’at I’m feart it’ll be hard to come at him, an’ still harder to come at speech o’ ’im, for whan he’s frichtit he can hardly muv is jawbane—no to say speyk. I maun try though and du my best. Ye think he’s lurkin’ aboot Fife Hoose, div ye, mem?”