nebulous notion of being somehow concerned in it. The thought of his
father cleared his brain. He ran to the dead body, kissed its lips as
he had once kissed the forehead of another, and falling on his knees
wept, he knew not for what. Presently, however, he recovered himself,
rose, and, rejoining the two men, said, "Gentlemen, hoo mony kens this
turn o' things?"

"None but Mr. Morrison, Mrs. Catanach and ourselves--so far as I
know," answered Mr. Soutar.

"And Miss Horn," added Mr. Graham, "She first brought out the truth
of it, and ought to be the first to know of your recognition by your
father."

"I s' tell her mysel'," returned Malcolm. "But, gentlemen, I beg o'
ye, till I ken what I'm aboot an' gie ye leave, dinna open yer moo' to
leevin' cratur' aboot this. There's time eneuch for the warl' to ken
't."

"Your lordship commands me," said Mr. Soutar.

"Yes, Malcolm, until you give me leave," said Mr. Graham.

"Whaur's Mr. Morrison?" asked Malcolm.

"He is still in the house," said Mr. Soutar.

"Gang till him, sir, an' gar him promise, on the word o' a gentleman,
to haud his tongue. I canna bide to hae't blaret a' gait an' a' at
ance. For Mistress Catanach, I s' deal wi' her mysel'."

The door opened, and, in all the conscious dignity conferred by the
immunities and prerogatives of her calling, Mrs. Catanach walked into
the room.

"A word wi' ye, Mistress Catanach," said Malcolm.

"Certainly, my lord," answered the howdy with mingled presumption and
respect, and followed him to the dining-room. "Weel, my lord--" she
began, before he had turned from shutting the door behind them, in the
tone and with the air--or rather _airs_--of having conferred a great
benefit, and expecting its recognition.

"Mistress Catanach," interrupted Malcolm, turning and facing her,
"gien I be un'er ony obligation to you, it's frae anither tongue I
maun hear't. But I hae an offer to mak ye: Sae lang as it disna coom
oot 'at I'm onything better nor a fisherman born, ye s' hae yer twinty
poun' i' the year, peyed ye quarterly. But the moment fowk says wha
I am ye touch na a poun'-not' mair, an' I coont mysel' free to pursue
onything I can pruv agane ye."

Mrs. Catanach attempted a laugh of scorn, but her face was gray as
putty and its muscles declined response.

"_Ay_ or _no_?" said Malcolm. "I winna gar ye sweir, for I wad lippen
to yer aith no a hair."

"Ay, my lord," said the howdy, reassuming at least outward composure,