“’Deed an’ I s’ du naething o’ the kin’, Ma’colm! H’ard ever onybody sic nonsense! What wad I du wi’ Jean? An’ I cudna thole men-fowk to wait upo’ me. I wad be clean affrontit.”
“Weel, weel! we’ll see,” said Malcolm.
On his way back to the House, he knocked at Mrs Catanach’s door, and said a few words to her which had a remarkable effect on the expression of her plump countenance and deep-set black eyes.
When he reached home, he ran up the main staircase, knocked at the first door, opened it, and peeped in. There sat Lenorme on the couch, with Florimel on his knees, nestling her head against his shoulder, like a child that had been very naughty but was fully forgiven. Her face was blotted with her tears, and her hair was everywhere; but there was a light of dawning goodness all about her, such as had never shone in her atmosphere before. By what stormy-sweet process the fountain of this light had been unsealed, no one ever knew but themselves.
She did not move when Malcolm entered—more than just to bring the palms of her hands together, and look up in his face.
“Have you told him all, Florimel?” he asked.
“Yes, Malcolm,” she answered. “Tell him again yourself.”
“No, Florimel. Once is enough.”
“I told him all,” she said with a gasp; then gave a wild little cry, and, with subdued exultation, added, “and he loves me yet! He has taken the girl without a name to his heart!”
“No wonder,” said Malcolm, “when she brought it with her.”