“She’s a peculiar person, that, Malcolm. Those are nice whitings. I don’t care about the trout. Just take it to her as you go back.”
“I doobt gien she’ll take it, mem. She’s an awfu’ vengefu’ cratur, fowk says.”
“You remind me, Malcolm,” returned Mrs Courthope, “that I’m not at ease about your grandfather. He is not in a Christian frame of mind at all—and he is an old man too. If we don’t forgive our enemies, you know, the Bible plainly tells us we shall not be forgiven ourselves.”
“I’m thinkin’ it was a greater nor the Bible said that, mem,” returned Malcolm, who was an apt pupil of Mr Graham. “But ye’ll be meanin’ Cawmill o’ Glenlyon,” he went on with a smile. “It canna maitter muckle to him whether my gran’father forgie him or no, seein’ he’s been deid this hunner year.”
“It’s not Campbell of Glenlyon, it’s your grandfather I am anxious about,” said Mrs Courthope. “Nor is it only Campbell of Glenlyon he’s so fierce against, but all his posterity as well.”
“They dinna exist, mem. There’s no sic a bein’ o’ the face o’ the yearth, as a descendant o’ that Glenlyon.”
“It makes little difference, I fear,” said Mrs Courthope, who was no bad logician. “The question isn’t whether or not there’s anybody to forgive, but whether Duncan MacPhail is willing to forgive.”
“That I do believe he is, mem; though he wad be as sair astonished to hear ’t as ye are yersel’.”
“I don’t know what you mean by that, Malcolm.”
“I mean, mem, ’at a blin’ man, like my gran’father, canna ken himsel’ richt, seein’ he canna ken ither fowk richt. It’s by kennin’ ither fowk ’at ye come to ken yersel’, mem—isna ’t noo?”