“That she’ll do you a creat wrong, and she’ll be ferry sorry for it, my son.”
“What wrang did ye ever du me, daddy?”
“That she was let you crow up a Cam’ell, my poy. If she tid put know ta paad plood was pe in you, she wouldn’t pe tone you ta wrong as pring you up.”
“That’s a wrang no ill to forgie, daddy. But it’s a pity ye didna lat me lie, for maybe syne Mistress Catanach wad hae broucht me up hersel’, an’ I micht hae come to something.”
“Ta duvil mhor (great) would pe in your heart and prain and poosom, my son.”
“Weel, ye see what ye hae saved me frae.”
“Yes; put ta duvil will pe to pay, for she couldn’t safe you from ta Cam’ell plood, my son! Malcolm, my poy,” he added after a pause, and with the solemnity of a mighty hate, “ta efil woman herself will pe a Cam’ell—ta woman Catanach will pe a Cam’ell, and her nainsel she’ll not know it pefore she’ll be in ta ped with the worsest Cam’ell tat ever God made—and she pecks his pardon, for she’ll not pelieve he wass making ta Cam’ells.”
“Divna ye think God made me, daddy?” asked Malcolm.
The old man thought for a little.
“Tat will tepend on who was pe your father, my son,” he replied. “If he too will pe a Cam’ell—ochone! ochone! Put tere may pe some coot plood co into you, more as enough to say God will pe make you, my son. Put ton’t pe asking, Malcolm. Ton’t you’ll pe asking.”