“It’s no like it, my lord,” returned Blue Peter, “whan the first thing I say is—what wad ye ha’e o’ me? Here I am—no speirin’ a queston!”
“Weel, I wad ha’e ye hear the story o’ ’t a’.”
“Say on, my lord,” said Peter.
But Malcolm was silent for a few moments.
“I was thinkin’, Peter,” he said at last, “whether I cud bide to hear you say my lord to me. Dootless, as it’ll ha’e to come to that, it wad be better to grow used till ’t while we’re thegither, sae ’at whan it maun be, it mayna ha’e the luik o’ cheenge intil it, for cheenge is jist the thing I canna bide. I’ the meantime, hooever, we canna gi’e in till ’t, ’cause it wad set fowk jaloosin’. But I wad be obleeged till ye, Peter, gien you wad say my lord whiles, whan we’re oor lanes, for I wad fain grow sae used till ’t ’at I never kent ye said it, for ’atween you an’ me, I dinna like it. An’ noo I s’ tell ye a’ ’at I ken.”
When he had ended the tale of what had come to his knowledge, and how it had come, and paused:
“Gie ’s a grup o’ yer han’, my lord,” said Blue Peter, “an’ may God haud ye lang in life an’ honour to reule ower us. Noo, gien ye please, what are ye gauin’ to du?”
“Tell ye me, Peter, what ye think I oucht to du.”
“That wad tak a heap o’ thinkin’,” returned the fisherman; “but ae thing seems aboot plain: ye ha’e no richt to lat yer sister gang exposed to temptations ye cud haud frae her. That’s no, as ye promised, to be kin’ till her. I canna believe that’s hoo yer father expeckit o’ ye. I ken weel ’at fowk in his poseetion ha’ena the preevileeges o’ the like o’ hiz—they ha’ena the win, an’ the watter, an’ whiles a lee shore to gar them know they are but men, an’ sen’ them rattlin’ at the wicket of h’aven; but still I dinna think, by yer ain accoont, specially noo ’at I houp he’s forgi’en an’ latten in—God grant it!—I div not think he wad like my leddy Florimel to be oon’er the influences o’ sic a ane as that Leddy Bellair. Ye maun gang till her. Ye ha’e nae ch’ice, my lord.”
“But what am I to do, whan I div gang?”