in the Highland cavern?"

"No," answered David, with great pain.

"Whar lives he, and what's his Christian name?" cried the wife, in
amazement.

"Is it his _Christian_ name ye ask?" said the old man. "Surely David,"
replied the wife--"his surname maun be Maxwell."

"But it is not Maxwell," said he, still groaning.

"Not Maxwell!" said the wife. "What is it then?"

"_Christie!_" ejaculated David, with a groan.

The mention of this name produced a strange effect on the minds of the
wife and daughters, who, in the brother, saw (as they thought) at once
the hated Christiecleek, and found an explanation of the horror which
David Maxwell had uniformly exhibited when the name was mentioned in his
presence. They had at last discovered the true solution of what had
appeared so wonderful; and, having retired for a few minutes, to allow
their excitement to subside, they, by comparing notes, came to the
conclusion that their father, having been ashamed of his connection with
the unnatural being, had changed his name, and dropped all intercourse
with him; but that now, when he was about to die, his feelings had
overpowered him, and forced him to make the awful confession he had
uttered. Pained and shamed by this newly-discovered connection, they
were not regardless of what was due to him whose shame and grief had
been even greater than theirs, and, accordingly, resolved to yield all
the consolation in their power to the good man who could not help having
a bad brother. On their return to the bedside, they found him in great
agony both of mind and body.

"This brither, David," said the wife, "I fear, is little worthy o' your
friendship, and the change o' your name is, doubtless, the consequence
o' a virtuous shame o' the connection. But can it be possible that he is
that man o' the mountain cavern, whose name terrifies the bairns o'
Scotland, and maks even the witches o' the glens raise their bony hands
in wonder and execration? Tell us, David, freely, if this be the burden
which presses sae heavily on yer mind. Yer wife and dochters will think
nae less o' you for having been unfortunate; and consolation is never
sae usefu as when it is applied to a grief that is nae langer secret.
The surgeon's skill is o' little avail when the disease is unknown."

This speech, containing apparently the fatal secret, produced a great
effect upon the bedridden patient, who rolled from side to side, and
sawed the air with his sinewy hands,