And again she cried aloud in her agony.
“Well, never mind; I’m not dead you see; and I’ll take better care of myself after this. Thank you for being so good to me; you’ve saved my life.”
“Ah! you won’t be so kind to me when you know all, Mr MacPhail,” sobbed the girl. “It was myself gave you the horrid stuff, but God knows I didn’t mean to do you no harm no more than your own mother.”
“What made you do it then?” asked Malcolm:
“The witch-woman told me to. She said that—that—if I gave it you—you would—you would——”
She buried her face in the bed, and so stifled a fresh howl of pain and shame.
“And it was all lies—lies!” she resumed, lifting her face again, which now flashed with rage, “for I know you’ll hate me worse than ever now.”
“My poor girl, I never hated you,” said Malcolm.
“No, but you did as bad: you never looked at me. And now you’ll hate me out and out. And the doctor says if you die, he’ll have it all searched into, and Miss Caley she look at me as if she suspect me of a hand in it; and they won’t let alone till they’ve got me hanged for it; and it’s all along of love of you; and I tell you the truth, Mr MacPhail, and you can do anything with me you like —I don’t care—only you won’t let them hang me—will you?—Oh, please don’t.”
She said all this with clasped hands, and the tears streaming down her face.