When Malcolm returned he went at once to the piper’s cottage, where he found him in bed, utterly exhausted and as utterly restless.  “Weel, daddy,” he said, “I doobt I daurna come near ye noo.”

“Come to her arms, my poor poy,” faltered Duncan.  “She’ll pe sorry in her sore heart for her poy.  Nefer you pe minding, my son:  you couldn’t help ta Cam’ell mother, and you’ll pe her own poy however.  Ochone! it will pe a plot upon you aal your tays, my son, and she’ll not can help you, and it’ll pe preaking her old heart.”

“Gien God thoucht the Cam’ells worth makin’, daddy, I dinna see ’at I hae ony richt to compleen ‘at I cam’ o’ them.”

“She hopes you’ll pe forgifing ta plind old man, however.  She couldn’t see, or she would haf known at once petter.”

“I dinna ken what ye’re efter noo, daddy,” said Malcolm.

“That she’ll do you a creat wrong, and she’ll be ferry sorry for it, my son.”

“What wrang did ye ever du me, daddy?”

“That she was let you crow up a Cam’ell, my poy.  If she tid put know ta paad blood was pe in you, she wouldn’t pe tone you ta wrong as pring you up.”

“That’s a wrang no ill to forgi’e, daddy.  But it’s a pity ye didna lat me lie, for maybe syne Mistress Catanach wad hae broucht me up hersel’, an’ I micht hae come to something.”

“Ta duvil mhor (great) would pe in your heart and prain and poosom, my son.”

“Weel, ye see what ye hae saved me frae.”

“Yes; put ta duvil will be to pay, for she couldn’t safe you from ta Cam’ell plood, my son.  Malcolm, my poy,” he added after a pause, and with the solemnity of a mighty hate, “ta efil woman herself will pe a Cam’ell—­ta woman Catanach will pe a Cam’ell, and her nainsel’ she’ll not know it pefore she’ll be in ta ped with ta worstest Cam’ell tat 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.