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The same moment Jean's head was popped in at the door: she had her reasons for always answering the bell like a bullet. "Mem?" said Jean. "Jean, I'm gaein' oot the nicht. The minister oucht to be spoken till aboot the schuilmaister, honest man. Tak the lantren wi' ye to the manse aboot ten o'clock. That 'll be time eneuch." "Verra weel, mem. But I'm thinkin' there's a mune the nicht."
"I wad be the son o' the puirest fisher wife i' the Seaton raither nor hers," said Malcolm gloomily. "An' it shaws ye better bred," said Miss Horn. "But she'll be at ye or lang an' tak ye tent what ye say. Dinna flee in her face; lat her jaw awa', an' mark her words. She may lat a streak o' licht oot o' her dirk lantren oonawaurs." Malcolm returned to Mr Graham.
I've had enough of this kind of thing." "Nonsense!" said the marquis, still rubbing his head. "Ye wad spile a', my leddy! It's ower late, forbye," said Malcolm; "I hear a fut." He rose and peeped out, but drew back instantly, saying in a whisper: "It's Mistress Catanach wi' a lantren! Haud yer tongue, my bonny leddy; ye ken weel she's no mowse.
"Naething but the doup o' ane, Jean. It 's no to ca' a mune. "Ay, lantren lats them see whaur ye are, an' haud oot o' yer gait," said Jean, who happened not to relish going out that night. "Troth, wuman, ye 're richt there!" returned her mistress, with cheerful assent. "The mair they see o' ye, the less they 'll meddle wi' ye caird or cadger.
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