ever God made; and she pecks his pardon, for she'll not pelieve He
wass making ta Cam'ells."

"Divna ye think God made me, daddy?" asked Malcolm.

The old man thought for a little. "Tat will tepend on who was pe your
father, my son," he replied. "If he too will be a Cam'ell--ochone!
ochone! Put tere may pe some coot plood co into you--more as enough to
say God will pe make you, my son. Put don't pe asking, Malcolm--ton't
you'll pe asking."

"What am I no to ask, daddy?"

"Ton't pe asking who made you, who was ta father to you, my poy. She
would rather not pe knowing, for ta man might pe a Cam'ell poth. And
if she couldn't pe lofing you no more, my son, she would pe tie before
her time, and her tays would pe long in ta land under ta crass, my
son."

But the remembrance of the sweet face whose cold loveliness he had
once kissed was enough to outweigh with Malcolm all the prejudices of
Duncan's instillation, and he was proud to take up even her shame.
To pass from Mrs. Stewart to her was to escape from the clutches of a
vampire demon to the arms of a sweet mother-angel.

Deeply concerned for the newly-discovered misfortunes of the old man
to whom he was indebted for this world's life at least, he anxiously
sought to soothe him; but he had far more and far worse to torment him
than Malcolm even yet knew, and with burning cheeks and bloodshot
eyes he lay tossing from side to side, now uttering terrible curses
in Gaelic and now weeping bitterly. Malcolm took his loved pipes, and
with the gentlest notes he could draw from them tried to charm to rest
the ruffled waters of his spirit; but his efforts were all in vain,
and believing at length that he would be quieter without him, he went
to the House and to his own room.

The door of the adjoining chamber stood open, and the long-forbidden
room lay exposed to any eye. Little did Malcolm think as he gazed
around it that it was the room in which he had first breathed the air
of the world; in which his mother had wept over her own false position
and his reported death; and from which he had been carried, by
Duncan's wicked wife, down the ruinous stair and away to the lip of
the sea, to find a home in the arms of the man whom he had just
left on his lonely couch torn between the conflicting emotions of a
gracious love for him and the frightful hate of her.

CHAPTER LXVII.

FEET OF WOOL.

The next day, Miss Horn, punctual as Fate, presented herself at Lossie
Hous