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Updated: July 12, 2025
"But ye'll be meanin' Cawmill o' Glenlyon," he went on with a smile. "It canna maitter muckle to him whether my gran'father forgie him or no, seein' he's been deid this hunner year." "It's not Campbell of Glenlyon, it's your grandfather I am anxious about," said Mrs Courthope. "Nor is it only Campbell of Glenlyon he's so fierce against, but all his posterity as well." "They dinna exist, mem.
"That's no what Maister Graham would mean, daddy," said Malcolm. "He would mean that God was the father o' 's a', and sae we cudna help lo'in' ane anither." "No; tat cannot pe right, Malcolm; for then we should haf to love eferybody. Now she loves you, my son, and she hates Cawmill of Clenlyon. She loves Mistress Partan when she'll not pe too rude to her, and she hates tat Mistress Catanach.
"In sic case," returned Malcolm, "the auld man 'ill hear a' aboot it the meenit he wins there; an' I mak nae doobt he'll du his best to perswaud himsel'." "But what if he shouldn't get there?" persisted Mrs Courthope, in pure benevolence. "Hoot toot, mem! I wonner to hear ye! A Cawmill latten in, and my gran'father hauden oot!
Cawmill of Clenlyon, Cod curse him! came to her pedside; and he'll say to her, 'MacDhonuill, he said, for pein' a tead man he would pe knowing my name, 'MacDhonuill, he said, 'what tid you'll pe meaning py turking my posterity? And she answered and said to him, 'I pray it had peen yourself, you tamned Clenlyon. And he said to me, 'It 'll pe no coot wishing tat; it would be toing you no coot to turk me, for I'm a tead man. 'And a tamned man, says herself, and would haf taken him py ta troat, put she couldn't mofe.
"It was too bad of you, Campbell," he said, "to play the good old man such a dog's trick." At the word Campbell the piper shook off his grandson, and sprang once more to his feet, his head thrown back, and every inch of his body trembling with rage. "She might haf known," he screamed, half choking, "that a cursed tog of a Cawmill was in it!"
Ye see he comes o' Glenco, an' the Cawmills are jist a hate till him specially Cawmill o' Glenlyon, wha was the warst o' them a'. Ye sud hear him tell the story till 's pipes, my leddy! It's gran' to hear him! An' the poetry a' his ain!" There came a blinding flash, and a roar through the leaden air, followed by heavy drops mixed with huge hailstones.
If you ket up, tat will pe you are a Cawmill. No, no, my son! You are ferry cruel to your own old daddy. She would pe too much sorry for her poy to hate him. It will pe so treadful to pe a Cawmill! No, no, my poy! She would take you to her poosom, and tat would trive ta Cawmill out of you. Put ton't speak of it any more, my son, for it cannot pe.
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