"This hospitality reminds me of my mother, Mrs. Macpherson." Carmichael was still inspired, and was, indeed, now in full sail. "She was a Highland woman, and had the Gaelic. She sometimes called me Ian instead of John."
"When you wass preaching about the shepherd finding the sheep, I wass wondering how you had the way to the heart, and I might have been thinking, oh yes, I might hef known"—all the time Janet was ever bringing something new out of the cupboard, though Carmichael only sipped the milk. "And what wass your mother's name?"
"Farquharson; her people came from Braemar; but they are all dead now, and I am the last of the race."
"A good clan," cried Janet, in great spirits, "and a loyal; they were out with the Macphersons in the '45. Will you happen to know whether your ancestor suffered?"
"That he did, for he shot an English officer dead on his doorstep, and had to flee the country; it was not a pretty deed."
"Had the officer broken bread with him?" inquired Janet, anxiously.
"No, he had come to quarter himself and his men on him, and said something rude about the Prince."
"Your ancestor gave him back his word like a gentleman; but he would maybe hef to stay away for a while. Wass he of the chief's blood?"
"Oh no, just a little laird, and he lost his bit of land, and we never saw the place again."
"He would be a Dunniewassal, and proud it iss I am to see you in my house; and the Gaelic, will you hef some words?"