"Hear till him again, my leddy," exclaimed Elsie; "the bairn can speak French—that cowes a'!"
"He cries for his father—poor child—poor child!" said Lady Rohallion, whose eyes filled with tears.
"Father—yes, madame; my father—where is he?" said the boy, opening his fine large eyes wider with an expression of anxiety and fear, and speaking in a lisping but strongly foreign accent; "take me to him—take me to him, madame, if you please."
"The bairn speaks English well enough," said the dominie; "he'll hae had a French tutor, or some sic haverel, to teach him to play the fiddle, I warrant, and to quote Voltaire, Rousseau, and Helvetius, when he grows older."
"What is your name, my dear little boy?" asked Lady Rohallion, caressingly; but she had to repeat the question thrice, and in different modes, before the child, who eyed her with evident distrust, replied, timidly:
"Quentin Kennedy, madame."
"Kennedy!" exclaimed all.
"A gude auld Ayrshire name, ever since the days of Malcolm the Maiden!" said the quartermaster, striking his staff on the floor.
"Rohallion's mother was a Kennedy," said the lady, a tender smile spreading over her face as she surveyed the orphan, "so the bairn could not have fallen into better hands than ours."
"Indubitably not, my lady," chimed in the dominie; "nor could he find a sibber friend."