“Did ye see my mistress?” asked Malcolm.
“Ow ay; but she luikit sae angry at me, I cudna speyk. Him an’ her ’s ower thrang for her to believe onything again’ him. An’ what ever the bairn’s to du wantin’ a father!”
“Lizzy,” said Malcolm, clasping the child again to his bosom. “I s’ be a father to yer bairn—that is, as weel ’s ane ’at’s no yer man can be.”
And he kissed the child tenderly.
The same moment an undefined impulse—the drawing of eyes probably —made him lift his towards the house: half leaning from the open window of the boudoir above him, stood Florimel and Liftore; and just as he looked up, Liftore was turning to Florimel with a smile that seemed to say—“There! I told you so! He is the father himself.”
Malcolm replaced the infant in his mother’s arm, and strode towards the house. Imagining he went to avenge her wrongs, Lizzy ran after him.
“Ma’colm! Ma’colm!” she cried; “—for my sake!—He’s the father o’ my bairn!”
Malcolm turned.
“Lizzy,” he said solemnly, “I winna lay han’ upon ’im.”
Lizzy pressed her child closer with a throb of relief.