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Malcolm.

      Duncan understood the position of the sun and what it signified, as well as the clearest eyed man in Port Lossie, but he could not afford to yield.

      "It was peing some conspeeracy of ta cursit Cawmills, to make her loss her poor pension," he said. "Put never you mind, Malcolm; I'll pe making up for ta plunder ta morrow mornin'. Ta coot peoples shall haf teir sleeps a whole hour after tey ought to be at teir works."

      CHAPTER IX: THE SALMON TROUT

      Malcolm walked up through the town with his fish, hoping to part with some of the less desirable of them, and so lighten his basket, before entering the grounds of Lossie House. But he had met with little success, and was now approaching the town gate, as they called it, which closed a short street at right angles to the principal one, when he came upon Mrs Catanach—on her knees, cleaning her doorstep.

      "Weel, Malcolm, what fish hae ye?" she said, without looking up.

      "Hoo kent ye it was me, Mistress Catanach?" asked the lad.

      "Kent it was you!" she repeated. "Gien there be but twa feet at ance in ony street o' Portlossie, I'll tell ye whase heid's abune them, an' my een steekit (closed)."

      "Hoot! ye're a witch, Mistress Catanach!" said Malcolm merrily.

      "That's as may be," she returned, rising, and nodding mysteriously; "I hae tauld ye nae mair nor the trowth. But what garred ye whup's a' oot o' oor nakit beds by five o'clock i' the mornin', this mornin', man! That's no what ye're paid for."

      "Deed, mem, it was jist a mistak' o' my puir daddy's. He had been feart o' sleepin' ower lang, ye see, an' sae had waukit ower sune. I was oot efter the fish mysel."

      "But ye fired the gun 'gen the chap (before the stroke) o' five."

      "Ow, ay! I fired the gun. The puir man wod hae bursten himsel' gien I hadna."

      "Deil gien he had bursten himsel'—the auld heelan' sholt!" exclaimed Mrs Catanach spitefully.

      "Ye sanna even sic words to my gran'father, Mrs Catanach," said Malcolm with rebuke.

      She laughed a strange laugh.

      "Sanna!" she repeated contemptuously. "An' wha's your gran'father, that I sud tak tent (heed) hoo I wag my tongue ower his richtousness?"

      Then, with a sudden change of her tone to one of would be friendliness—"But what'll ye be seekin' for that bit sawmon trooty, man?" she said.

      As she spoke she approached his basket, and would have taken the fish in her hands, but Malcolm involuntarily drew back.

      "It's gauin' to the Hoose to my lord's brakfast," he said.

      "Hoots! ye'll jist lea' the troot wi' me.—Ye'll be seekin' a saxpence for 't, I reckon," she persisted, again approaching the basket.

      "I tell ye, Mistress Catanach," said Malcolm, drawing back now in the fear that if she once had it she would not yield it again, "it 's gauin' up to the Hoose!"

      "Hoots! there's naebody there seen 't yet. It's new oot o' the watter."

      "But Mistress Courthope was doon last nicht, an' wantit the best I cud heuk."

      "Mistress Courthope! Wha cares for her? A mim, cantin' auld body! Gie me the trootie, Ma'colm. Ye're a bonny laad, an 'it s' be the better for ye."

      "Deed I cudna du 't, Mistress Catanach—though sorry to disobleege ye. It's bespoken, ye see. But there's a fine haddie, an' a bonny sma' coddie, an' a goukmey (gray gurnard)."

      "Gae 'wa' wi' yer haddies, an' yer goukmeys! Ye sanna gowk me wi' them."

      "Weel, I wadna wonner," said Malcolm, "gien Mrs Courthope wad like the haddie tu, an' maybe the lave o' them as weel. Hers is a muckle faimily to haud eatin.' I'll jist gang to the Hoose first afore I mak ony mair offers frae my creel."

      "Ye'll lea' the troot wi' me," said Mrs Catanach imperiously.

      "Na; I canna du that. Ye maun see yersel' 'at I canna."

      The woman's face grew dark with anger. "It s' be the waur for ye," she cried.

      " no gauin' to be fleyt (frightened) at ye. Ye're no sic a witch as that comes till, though ye div ken a body's fit upo' the flags! My blin' luckie deddy can du mair nor that!" said Malcolm, irritated by her persistency, threats and evil looks.

      "Daur ye me?"' she returned, her pasty cheeks now red as fire, and her wicked eyes flashing as she shook her clenched fist at him.

      "What for no?" he answered coolly, turning his head back over his shoulder, for he was already on his way to the gate.

      "Ye s' ken that, ye misbegotten funlin'!" shrieked the woman, and waddled hastily into the house.

      "What ails her?" said Malcolm to himself. "She micht ha' seen 'at I bude to gie Mrs Courthope the first offer."

      By a winding carriage drive, through trees whose growth was stunted by the sea winds, which had cut off their tops as with a keen razor, Malcolm made a slow descent, yet was soon shadowed by timber of a more prosperous growth, rising as from a lake of the loveliest green, spangled with starry daisies. The air was full of sweet odours uplifted with the ascending dew, and trembled with a hundred songs at once, for here was a very paradise for birds. At length he came in sight of a long low wing of the house, and went to the door that led to the kitchen. There a maid informed him that Mrs Courthope was in the hall, and he had better take his basket there, for she wanted to see him. He obeyed, and sought the main entrance.

      The house was an ancient pile, mainly of two sides at right angles, but with many gables, mostly having corbel steps—a genuine old Scottish dwelling, small windowed and gray, with steep slated roofs, and many turrets, each with a conical top. Some of these turrets rose from the ground, encasing spiral stone stairs; others were but bartizans, their interiors forming recesses in rooms. They gave the house something of the air of a French chateau, only it looked stronger and far grimmer. Carved around some of the windows, in ancient characters, were Scripture texts and antique proverbs. Two time worn specimens of heraldic zoology, in a state of fearful and everlasting excitement, stood rampant and gaping, one on each side of the hall door, contrasting strangely with the repose of the ancient house, which looked very like what the oldest part of it was said to have been—a monastery. It had at the same time, however, a somewhat warlike expression, wherein consisting it would have been difficult to say; nor could it ever have been capable of much defence, although its position in that regard was splendid. In front was a great gravel space, in the centre of which lay a huge block of serpentine, from a quarry on the estate, filling the office of goal, being the pivot, as it were, around which all carriages turned.

      On one side of the house was a great stone bridge, of lofty span, stretching across a little glen, in which ran a brown stream spotted with foam—the same that entered the frith beside the Seaton; not muddy, however, for though dark it was clear—its brown being a rich transparent hue, almost red, gathered from the peat bogs of the great moorland hill behind. Only a very narrow terrace walk, with battlemented parapet, lay between the back of the house, and a precipitous descent of a hundred feet to this rivulet. Up its banks, lovely with flowers and rich with shrubs and trees below, you might ascend until by slow gradations you left the woods and all culture behind, and found yourself, though still within the precincts of Lossie House, on the lonely side of the waste hill, a thousand feet above the sea.

      The hall door stood open, and just within hovered Mrs Courthope, dusting certain precious things not to be handled by a housemaid. This portion of the building was so narrow that the hall occupied its entire width, and on the opposite side of it another door, standing also open, gave a glimpse of the glen.

      "Good morning, Malcolm," said Mrs Courthope, when she turned and saw whose shadow fell on the marble floor. "What have you brought me?"

      "A fine salmon troot, mem. But gien ye had hard boo Mistress Catanach flytit (scolded) at me 'cause I wadna gie't to her! You wad hae thocht, mem, she was something no canny—the w'y 'at she first beggit, an' syne fleecht (flattered), an syne a' but banned an' swore."

      "She's a peculiar person, that, Malcolm. Those are nice whitings. I don't care about the trout. Just take it to her as you go back."

      "I

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