White Heather, A Novel (Volume 1 of 3)

WHITE HEATHER (VOL. I) (continued 2)

Reading edition

'Why, you know, pappa dear,' she would say as she stood at the window of their hotel in Piccadilly, and watched the carriages passing to and fro beneath her, 'lords may be bad enough, but you know they're not half as bad as the mosquitoes are at home. They don't worry one half as much; seems to me you might live in this country a considerable time and never be worried by one of them. Why, that's the worst of it. When I left home, I thought the earls and marquises would just be crowding us; and they don't seem to come along at all. I confess they are a mean lot. Don't they know well enough that the first thing ['the fooist thing,' she said, of course; but her accent sounded quite quaint and pretty if you happened to be looking at the pretty, soft, opaque, dark eyes] the first thing an American girl has to do when she gets to Europe is to have a lord propose to her, and to reject him? But how can I? They won't come along! It's just too horrid for anything; for of course when I go back home they'll say—"It's because you're not a Boston girl. London's full of lords; but it's only Boston girls they run after; and, poor things, they and their coronets are always being rejected. The noble pride of a Republican country; wave the banner!"'

But here Mr. Hodson met with no such ill-timed and flippant opposition. Ronald the keeper listened respectfully, and only spoke when spoken to; perhaps the abstract question did not interest him. But when it came to the downright inquiry as to whether he, Strang, considered his master, Lord Ailine, to be in any way whatever a better man than himself, his answer was prompt.

'Yes, sir, he is,' he said, as they walked leisurely along the road. 'He is a better man than me by two inches round the chest, as I should guess. Why, sir, the time that I hurt my kneecap, one night we were coming down Ben Strua, our two selves, nothing would hinder his lordship but he must carry me on his back all the way down the hill and across the burn till we reached the shepherd's bothy. Ay, and the burn in spate; and the night as dark as pitch; one wrong step on the swing-bridge, and both of us were gone. There's Peter McEachran at Tongue, that some of them think's the strongest man in these parts; and I offered to bet him five shillings he wouldna carry me across that bridge—let alone down the hill—on a dark night. But would he try? Not a bit, sir.'

'I should think Peter Mac—what's his name?—was a wiser man than to risk his neck for five shillings,' Mr. Hodson said drily. 'And you—you would risk yours—for what?'

'Oh, they were saying things about his lordship,' Ronald said carelessly.

'Then he is not worshipped as a divinity by everybody?' the American said shrewdly.

But the keeper answered, with much nonchalance—

'I suppose he has his ill-wishers and his well-wishers, like most other folk; and I suppose, like most other folk, he doesna pay ower great attention to what people say of him.'

They did not pursue the subject further at this moment, for a turn of the road brought them suddenly within sight of a stranger, and the appearance of a stranger in these parts was an event demanding silence and a concentration of interest. Of course, to Ronald Strang Miss Meenie Douglas was no stranger; but she was obviously a source of some embarrassment: the instant he caught sight of her his face reddened, and as she approached he kept his eyes fixed on the ground. It was not that he was ashamed she should see him acting the part of a gillie; for that he did not care in the least, it was as much a part of his work as anything else; what vexed him was lest some sign of recognition should show the stranger gentleman that Miss Douglas had formed the acquaintance of the person who was at the moment carrying his waterproof and his fishing-rods. And he hoped that Meenie would have the sense to go by without taking any notice of him; and he kept his eyes on the road, and walked forward in silence.

'Who is she?' Mr. Hodson asked, in an undertone, and with some astonishment, for he had no idea there was any such neatly-dressed and pretty young lady in the neighbourhood.

Ronald did not answer, and they drew nearer. Indeed, Meenie was looking quite beautiful this morning; for the cold air had brightened up the colour in her cheeks; and the wide-apart blue-gray eyes were clear and full of light; and her brown hair, if it was tightly braided and bound behind, had in front been blown about a little by the wind, and here and there a stray curl appeared on the fair white forehead. And then again her winter clothing seemed to suit the slight and graceful figure; she looked altogether warm, and furry, and nice, and comfortable; and there was a sensible air about her dress—the blue serge skirt, the tight-fitting sealskin coat (but this was a present from the laird of Glengask and Orosay) and the little brown velvet hat with its wing of ptarmigan plumage (this was a present not from Glengask, and probably was not of the value of three halfpence, but she wore it, nevertheless, when she was at her smartest). And if Ronald thought she was going to pass him by without a word, he was mistaken. It was not her way. As she met them, one swift glance of her Highland eyes was all she bestowed on the stranger; then she said, pleasantly, as she passed—

'Good morning, Ronald.'

He was forced to look up.

'Good morning, Miss Douglas,' said he, with studied respect; and they went on.

'Miss Douglas?' Mr. Hodson repeated, as soon as they were beyond hearing. 'The doctor's daughter, I presume?'

'Yes, sir.'

'But—but—I had no idea—why, she is a most uncommonly pretty young lady—one of the most interesting faces I have seen for many a day. You did not say there was such a charming young person in the place; why, she adds a new interest altogether; I fancy my daughter won't be long in making her acquaintance when she comes here.'

Indeed, as they got down to the boat, and the two men set about getting the rods ready, all his talk was about the pretty young lady he had seen; and he scarcely noticed that Ronald, in answering these questions, showed a very marked reserve. He could not be got to speak of her except in curt answers; perhaps he did not like to have the melancholy Duncan listening; at all events, he showed a quite absorbing interest in the phantom minnows, and traces, and what not. Moreover, when they got into the boat, there was but little opportunity for conversation. The day had become more and more squally; there was a considerable sea on; it was all the two men could do to keep sufficient way on the coble so that the phantoms should spin properly. Then every few minutes a rain-cloud would come drifting across—at first mysterious and awful, as if the whole world were sinking into darkness; then a few big drops would patter about; then down came the sharp clattering shower, only to be followed by a marvellous clearing up again, and a burst of watery sunshine along the Clebrig slopes. But these changes kept Mr. Hodson employed in sheltering himself from the rain while it lasted, and then getting off his waterproof again lest perchance there might come a salmon at one of the lines. That event did actually occur; and when they least expected it. In one of the heaviest of the squalls they had such a fight to get the boat along that the minnows, sinking somewhat, caught the bottom. Of course the rowers had to back down—or rather to drift down—to get the lines released; and altogether the prospect of affairs seemed so unpromising—the heavens darkening with further rain, the wind blowing in sharper and sharper gusts, and the water coming heavily over the bows—that Mr. Hodson called out that, as soon as he had got the minnows free, they might as well run the coble on to the land, and wait for calmer weather. But this was a lee shore. The men were willing to give up for a time—but not until they had got to the sheltered side; so he was counselled to put out the lines again, slowly, and they began anew their fight against the gale. Well, he was actually paying out the first of the lines with his hand, when suddenly—and without any of the preliminary warnings that usually tell of a salmon being after a minnow—the line was snatched from his fingers, and out went the reel with that sharp long shriek that sends the whole boat's crew into an excitement of expectation. But there was no spring into the air away along there in the darkened and plunging waters; as he rapidly got in his line, he knew only of a dull and heavy strain; and the men had to keep on with their hard pulling against the wind, for the fish seemed following the boat in this sulky and heavy fashion.

'What do you think?' Mr. Hodson said, half turning round, and not giving plainer voice to his anxieties.

'I'm afraid it's a kelt, sir,' the dismal gillie answered.

'Looks like it, don't it?' the fisherman said rather dolefully; for the fish showed no sign of life whatever.

'We'll see by and by,' was Ronald's prudent answer; but even he was doubtful; the only good feature being that, if the fish showed no fight, at least he kept a heavy strain on the rod.

But it seemed as if everything was conspiring against them. The black heavens above them burst into a torrent of rain; and with that came a squall that tore the water white, and blew them down on the fish in spite of their hardest efforts. Shorter and shorter grew the line as it was rapidly got in, and still the fish did not show; it was now so near to the boat that any sudden movement on its part was almost certain to produce a catastrophe. Nor could they drive the boat ashore; the beach was here a mass of sharp stones and rocks; in three minutes the coble would have been stove in. With faces set hard the two men pulled and pulled against the storm of wind and rain; and Mr. Hodson—seated now, for he dared not attempt to stand up, the boat was being thrown about so by the heavy waves—could only get in a little more line when he had the chance, and look helplessly on, and wait.

Then, all of a sudden, there was a long shrill shriek—heard loud above the din of wind and water—continued and continued, and in vain he tried to arrest this wild rush; and then, some seventy or eighty yards away, there was a great white splash among the rushing black waves—and another—and another—and then a further whirling out of some fifteen yards of line, until he glanced with alarm at the slender quantity left on the reel. But presently he began to get some in again; the men were glad to let the boat drift down slowly; harder and harder he worked at the big reel, and at last he came to fighting terms with the animal—kelt or salmon, as it might be—with some five-and-twenty yards out, and the squall moderating a little, so that the men could keep the boat as they wanted. Nay, he ventured to stand up now, wedging his legs and feet so that he should not be suddenly thrown overboard; and it was quite evident, from the serious purpose of his face, that all possibility of this being a kelt had now been thrown aside.

'No kelt is he, Ronald?' he called aloud.

'Not a bit, sir! There's no kelt about that one. But give him time; he's a good big fish, or I'm sore mistaken.'

They were far from the end yet, however. The long rush and the splashing had exhausted him for a while; and the fisherman, with a firm application of the butt, thought he could make the fish show himself; but still he kept boring steadily down, sometimes making little angry rushes of a dozen yards or so. And then all of a sudden began some wild cantrips. There was another rush of ten or a dozen yards; and a clear leap into the air—a beautiful, great, silvery creature he looked amid all this hurrying gloom; and then another downward rush; and then he came to the surface again, and shook and tugged and struck with his tail until the water was foaming white about him. These were a few terribly anxious seconds, but all went happily by, and then it was felt that the worst of the fighting was over. After that there was but the sullen refusal to come near the boat—the short sheering off whenever he saw it or one of the oars; but now, in the slow curves through the water, he was beginning to show the gleam of his side; and Ronald was crouching down in the stern, gaff in hand.

'Steady, sir, steady,' he was saying, with his eye on those slow circles; 'give him time, he's no done yet; a heavy fish, sir—a good fish that—twenty pounds, I'm thinking—come along, my beauty, come along—the butt now, sir!' And then, as the great gleaming fish, head up, came sheering along on its side, there was a quick dive of the steel clip, and the next second the splendid creature was in the bottom of the coble.

Mr. Hodson sank down on to his seat; it had been a long fight—over half an hour; he was exhausted with the strain of keeping himself balanced; and he was also (what he had not perceived in this long spell of excitement) wet to the skin. He pulled out a spirit-flask from the pocket of his waterproof—as ill-luck would have it, that useful garment happened to be lying in the bottom of the boat when the fight began—and gave the two men a liberal dram; he then took a sip himself; and when there had been a general quarrel over the size of the fish—nineteen the lowest, twenty-two the highest guess—they began to consider what they ought to do next. The weather looked very ugly. It was resolved to get up to the head of the loch anyhow, and there decide; and so the men took to their oars again, and began to force their way through the heavy and white-crested waves.

But long ere they had reached the head of the loch Mr. Hodson had become aware of a cold feeling about his shoulders and back, and quickly enough he came to the conclusion that sitting in an open boat, with clothes wet through, on a January day, did not promise sufficient happiness. He said they might put him ashore as soon as possible.

'Indeed, sir, it's no much use going on in this weather,' Ronald said, 'unless maybe you were to try the fly.'

'I thought you said it was rather early for the fly.'

'Rayther early,' Ronald admitted.

'Rawther,' said Duncan.

'Anyhow,' observed Mr. Hodson, 'I don't feel like sitting in this boat any longer in wet clothes. I'm going back to the inn right now; maybe the afternoon will clear up—and then we might have another try.'

They got ashore at last, and Mr. Hodson at once started off for the inn; and when the two men had got the rods taken down, and the fish tied head and tail for the better carrying of it, they set out too. But Ronald seemed unusually depressed and silent. Where was the careless joke—the verse of an idle song—with which he was wont to brave the discomforts of wind and weather? The two men strode along without a word; and it was not likely that Duncan the dismal should be the first to break the silence. Nay, when they got to the inn, Ronald would not go in for a minute or two, as was his custom, to see the fish weighed and have a chat. He went on to his own cottage; got the key of the kennel; and presently he and the dogs were leaving the little scattered hamlet, taking the lonely moorland road that led away up the Mudal valley.

He knew not why he was so ill at ease; but something had gone wrong. Had his mind been disturbed and disquieted by the American gentleman's plainly hinting to him that he was living in a fool's paradise; and that old age, and illness, and the possible ingratitude of his master were things to be looked forward to? Or was it that the sudden meeting with Meenie, with this stranger looking on, seemed to have revealed to him all at once how far away she was from him? If she and he had met, as every day they did, and passed with the usual friendly greeting, it would all have been quite simple and ordinary enough; but with this stranger looking on,—and she appearing so beautiful and refined and neatly dressed, and wearing moreover the present given her by Glengask and Orosay—while he, on the other hand, was carrying the gentleman's waterproof and a bundle of rods—well, that was all different somehow. And why had she said 'Good-morning!' with such a pointed friendliness? He did not wish this stranger to imagine that Miss Douglas and he were even acquaintances. And then he thought that that very night he would burn all those stupid verses he had written about her; that secret and half-regretful joy of his—of imagining himself in a position that would entitle him to address her so—was all too daring and presuming. It is true, she wore the ptarmigan's wing she had begged him to get for her (and never in all the years had he so gladly sped up the Clebrig slopes as when she sent him on that errand), but that was a trifle; any young lady, if she wanted such a thing, would naturally ask the nearest gamekeeper. And then the other young lady—the American young lady—when she came, and made Meenie's acquaintance: would not they be much together? Meenie would be still farther and farther away then. He would himself have to keep studiously aloof, if in the generosity of her heart she wished to be as friendly as ever.

Well, these were not very bitter or tragic thoughts; and yet—and yet—there was something wrong. He scarcely knew what it was, but only that the little hamlet—as he returned to it after a long and solitary wandering—did not seem to be the simple and natural and happy place that it used to be. But one thing he was glad of. The second gillie had now arrived from Tongue. Consequently his services would no longer be needed in the coble; he would return to his own ways; and be his own master. And as for companions?—well, Clebrig and he had long been friends.

CHAPTER VI.

A PROGRAMME.

That same evening little Maggie, having made herself as smart and neat as possible, went along the dark road to the doctor's house, was admitted, and forthwith passed upstairs to Miss Douglas's own room. It was an exceedingly small apartment; but on this cold winter night it looked remarkably warm and snug and bright, what with the red peats in the fireplace, and the brilliant little lamp on the table; and it was prettily decorated too, with evidences of feminine care and industry everywhere about. And Meenie herself was there—in her gown of plain blue serge; and apparently she had been busy, for the table was littered with patterns and designs and knitting-needles and what not, while a large mass of blue worsted was round the back of a chair, waiting for the winding.

'Help me to clear the table, Maggie,' she said good-naturedly, when her visitor entered, 'and then we will get tea over: I declare I have so many things to think of that I am just driven daft.'

And then she said—with some touch of anger—

'Do you know that I saw your brother—on a cold, wet day like this—and he was walking along the road, with his jacket open, and paying no heed at all to the weather? Maggie, why do you not make him take some care of himself? In January—and he goes about as if it were June! How would you like it if he were to catch a bad cold and have to take to his bed? Why do you not make him take care of himself?'

'He would only laugh at me,' the little Maggie said ruefully. 'He doesna mind anything. I do my best to get his clothes dried when he comes in wet; but he doesna like to be bothered—especially if he's writing or reading; he says that a pipe keeps the harm away. I'm sure if you would speak to him, Meenie, he would take a great deal more care.'

'What, me!' the girl said—and there was a touch of colour in the pretty refined face; and then she added, with a good-humoured smile, 'No, he would not mind what I said, I know. But it is little matter; for with such a wilful man you can do nothing except by cunning. Do you see the wool there, Maggie?'

She laughed; but the little, red-haired, freckled girl looked rather frightened.

'Oh no, Meenie, I dare not take it,' she said. 'He would know I had not the money to buy all that wool; and then he would ask; and I should be scolded—

'Nonsense, nonsense!' the other cried, in her friendly way. 'Do you think a man would ask any such questions? It would never occur to him at all! When the jersey is all knitted and complete, you will just say to him, "Ronald, here is a jersey that I have knitted for you all by myself; and you are to put it on whenever there is a cold morning;" and you will see he will think your knitting it yourself explains everything. Ask about the wool?—he will never think of such a thing. If you hang the jersey on the nail of his bedroom door, it will be all a matter of course; I should not wonder, now, if he forgot to say "Thank you."'

'And then there is another thing,' Maggie said, rather timidly and wistfully. 'How am I to tell him that I knitted the jersey when you know that you will do the most of it? For it is always that; you did nearly all the socks that we gave to Ronald; and he thinks it was me.'

But here the good humour left Meenie Douglas's face—that was suddenly grown red and embarrassed.

'How can you talk such foolishness?' she said, rather sharply. 'If I show you here or there how you are to go on, is that doing the knitting for you? I wonder you have no more sense, Maggie. Of course, I will have to begin the jersey for you; and if I cast on the stitches for the width of the neck, what is that? It is what any one would do for you—Mrs. Murray, or one of the girls at the inn. And I hope you are not going away with that idea in your head; or sooner or later you will be telling somebody that I am knitting a jersey for your brother—that would be a fine thing!'

A timid appealing hand was put on her arm.

'I am sure that Ronald would rather never see or hear of any jersey than have anything make you angry, Meenie.'

The trouble was over in a moment: the girl was essentially quick and generous and kind-hearted; and this small lassie was about her only companion. Moreover, tea was brought in at this moment by the maidservant; and so the question of the proportion of work contributed by either of them to Ronald's woollen gear was put aside.

'And what do you think of this now, Maggie?' the elder said, with some eagerness in her face and eyes. 'You know the great preparations they are making for Monday night—the long barn is to be cleared; and they are going to have a chimney made and a fireplace; and long tables all the way down, and wooden forms to sit on; and some of the lads, they say, are talking of a chandelier to be made out of hoops, and candles stuck all the way round. And all that trouble for the grown-up folk! Is it fair? Oh, it is quite absurd to have such a deal of trouble; and all for the grown-up people. Now, if Ronald would help me—and you know he is such a favourite he always has his own way with everybody—would it not be a fine thing to ask Mr. Murray to leave all those preparations as they are for a day or two—perhaps till Wednesday—and by that time we could have messages sent to the farms round about, and all the children brought in for a soirée? Why should the grown-up people have everything? And there would be nobody but ourselves,—that's Ronald and you and I, Maggie,—for the children would have more freedom and amusement that way—you see my father is not likely to be back by then, or we might ask him—and then, with nearly a week, we could send to Tongue for a great many things—and—and—have a splendid children's party just as fine as fine could be.'

She was quite excited over this matter.

'Look,' she said, going and fetching a sheet of paper which was written over in a bold, large hand (her own handwriting was small and neat enough, but this had been assumed for so important a public purpose); 'look at the programme—it is all guess work as yet, of course, for I have not asked Ronald; but I am sure he will help us; and if he says it is to be done, then everything will go right—they will keep the barn for us; and the people will send the children; and those of them who can't go back will stay the night at the inn. I have saved my pocket-money for months for it; but who could have expected such a chance—the barn all fitted up, and the fire to keep it warm, and the chandelier? There now, Maggie, what do you think?'

The little Maggie took up the big sheet of paper, wondering; for all this was a wild and startling project amid the monotony of their life in this remote and small hamlet.

CHILDREN'S SOIREE.

Inver-Mudal, Wednesday, January 23.

MR. RONALD STRANG in the Chair.

PROGRAMME.

Psalm . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Old Hundredth.

Service of Tea and Cake.

Address . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . CHAIRMAN.

Service of Raisins.

Song . . . 'My love she's but a lassie yet.' . . MR. RONALD STRANG. Reading . . 'The Cameronian's Dream.' . . . . . . Miss M. DOUGLAS. Song . . . 'O dinna cross the burn, Willie.' . . MR. RONALD STRANG. Pipe-Music 'Lord Breadalbane's March.' . . . . . MR. RONALD STRANG.

Service of Oranges.

Hymn . . . 'Whither, pilgrims, are you going?' . . CHILDREN. Duet . . . 'Huntingtower.' . . . . . . . . . . . . { Miss M. DOUGLAS { & Miss M. STRANG.

But at this point Maggie broke into pure affright.

'Oh, Meenie!' she cried—'how can I?—-before them all!'

'But only before children!' was the quick remonstrance. 'Would you have Ronald do everything? Why, look—an address—a song—a song—a march on the pipes—is he to have no rest at all?'

'But you, Meenie—you can sing so well and without trouble—I know I will spoil everything——'

'No, no, you will spoil nothing; and we will get through very well.'

'Ferry well,' she said, in spite of her Edinburgh birth; and she was evidently vastly proud of her skill in drawing up so brilliant and varied a programme. Maggie continued her reading—but now in some alarm:

Song . . . . 'The Laird o' Cockpen.' . . . . . MR. RONALD STRANG. Reading . . 'Jeanie Morrison.' . . . . . . . Miss M. DOUGLAS.

Service of Shortbread.

Song . . . . 'Gloomy Winter's now awa'.' . . . MR. RONALD STRANG. Song . . . . 'Auld Lang Syne.' . . . . . . . . THE COMPANY. Vote of thanks to the Chairman . . . . . . . . Miss M. DOUGLAS.

Finale.

Pipe-Music, 'Caidil gu lo' (Sleep on till day) MR. RONALD STRANG.

Meenie looked and laughed with pleasure; she was quite proud of her skill of arrangement.

'But, Meenie,' her companion said, 'why have ye not put down a duet between you and Ronald? He can sing so well; and you; and that would be prettier far than anything. Do ye no mind the time we were a' away fishing at Loch Loyal; and we were walking back; and Ronald was telling us of what he saw in a theatre in Edinburgh? And when he told us about the young lady's sweetheart coming in a boat at night, and singing to her below the window, you knew what it was well enough—and you tried it together—oh! that was so fine! Will ye no ask him to sing that with ye?'

Meenie's face flushed somewhat; and she would have evaded the question with a little laugh but that it was repeated. Whereupon she said—

'Why, now, Maggie, you have such a memory! And I have no doubt there was nonsense going on as we were walking back from Loch Loyal—for a beautiful night it was, in the middle of summer, when there is no darkness at all in the skies all the night long. Oh yes, I remember it too; and very well; but it was amongst ourselves; we are not going to have any such nonsense before other people. And if we were to sing "O hush thee, my baby," would not the children be thinking it was a hint for them to go away to bed? And besides, surely I have asked Ronald to do enough for us; do you not think he will be surprised, and perhaps angry, when he sees how often his name comes there?'

'Indeed no, I'm sure,' Maggie said promptly. 'There's just nothing that he wouldna do for you, Meenie.'

'But I will wait till I see him in a good humour,' said her friend, laughing, 'before I ask him for so much.'

'Mich,' she said; unawares she had caught up a good many of the local touches.

'And do ye think ye could ever find him in an ill-humour wi' you?' Maggie said, almost reproachfully.

There was no answer to the question; the programme was put aside.

'Very well, then,' Meenie said, 'we will suppose that is settled. And what is next? Why, Maggie, if I had not the brain of a prime minister, I could never get through so many schemes. Oh, this is it: of course we shall be very much obliged to them if they lend us the barn and all its fittings and we should do something for them in return. And I am sure the lads will be thinking of nothing but the carpentering; and the lasses at the inn will be thinking only of the cooking of the supper, and their own ribbons and frocks. Now, Maggie, suppose you and I were to do something to make the barn look pretty; I am sure Ronald would cut us a lot of fir-branches, for there's nothing else just now; and we could fix them up all round the barn; and then—look here.'

She had got a lot of large printed designs; and a heap of stiff paper of various colours.

'We will have to make paper flowers for them, because there's none growing just now; and very well they will look among the fir-branches. Oh yes, very well indeed. Red and white roses do not grow on fir-branches—it does not need the old man of Ross to tell us that; but they will look very well whatever; and then large orange lilies, and anything to make a bold show in so big a place. And if the lads are making a chandelier out of the hoops of a barrel, we will ask them to let us put red worsted round the hoops; that will look very well too. For we must do something to thank them, Maggie; and then, indeed, when it comes to our turn, we will have the chance too of looking at the decorations when we have the children's soirée.'

Maggie looked up quickly.

'But, Meenie, you are coming to the party on Monday night too?'

There was no embarrassment on the beautiful, fine, gentle face. She only said—

'Well, no one has asked me.'

And the little Maggie flushed with shame and vexation.

'Indeed, now! Did Ronald not speak to you about it?'

'Oh, I have known about it for a long time,' she said lightly, 'and I was very glad to hear of it, for I thought it was a great chance for me to get the loan of the barn.'

'But you—you, Meenie—that they did not ask you first of all!' the younger girl cried. 'But it can only be that every one is expected to come—every one except the small children who canna sit up late. And I'm sure I did not expect to go; but Mr. Murray, he was joking and saying that I would have to dance the first dance wi' him; and Ronald said I might be there for a while. But—but—I'm no going if you're no going, Meenie.'

'But that is nonsense, Maggie,' the other said good-naturedly. 'Of course you must go. And I should like well enough——'

'I am sure Mr. Murray would put you at the head of the table—by his own side—and proud, too!' Maggie exclaimed warmly.

'And I am sure I should not wish anything like that,' Meenie said, laughing. 'I would far rather go with you. I would like to see some of the dancing.'

'Oh, Meenie,' her companion said, with eyes full of earnestness, 'did you ever see Ronald dance the sword-dance?'

'No, I have not, Maggie.'

'They say there is none can do it like him. And if he would only go to the Highland meetings, he could win prizes and medals—and for the pipe-playing too, and the tossing the caber. There is not one of the lads can come near him; but it is not often that he tries; for he is not proud.'

'I am glad that he does not go to the Highland meetings,' Meenie said, rather quietly, and with her eyes cast down.

'No, he is not proud,' said Maggie, continuing (for she had but the one hero in all the world), 'although there is nothing he canna do better than any of them. There was one of the gentlemen said to him last year—the gentleman hadna been shooting very well the day before—he said, "Ronald, let one of the gillies look after the dogs to-day, and go you and bring your gun, and make up for my mistakes;" and when he came home in the evening, he said, "It was a clean day's shooting the day; we did not leave one wounded bird or hare behind us." And another gentleman was saying, "Ronald, if ye could sell your eye-sight, I would give ye five hundred pounds for't." And Duncan was saying that this gentleman that's come for the fishing, he doesna talk to Ronald about the salmon and the loch, but about everything in the country, and Ronald knows as well as him about such things. And his lordship, too, he writes to Ronald, "Dear Ronald," and quite friendly; and when he was going away he gave Ronald his own pipe, that has got a silver band on it, and his tobacco-pouch, with the letters of his name worked in silk. And there's not one can say that Ronald's proud.'

Well, this was very idle talk; and moreover it was continued, for the red-haired and freckled little sister was never weary of relating the exploits of her handsome brother—the adventures he had had with wild-cats, and stags, and seals, and eagles, and the like; and, strangely enough, Miss Douglas showed no sign of impatience whatever. Nay, she listened with an interest that scarcely allowed her to interrupt with a word; and with satisfaction and approval, to judge by her expression; and all that she would say from time to time—and absently—was:

'But he is so careless, Maggie! Why don't you speak to him? You really must make him more heedful of himself.'

However, the night was going by; and Maggie's praises and recitals had come to an end. Meenie went down to the door to see her friend comfortably wrapped up; but there was no need of escort; the stars were shining clear, though the wind still howled blusteringly. And so they said good-bye; and Maggie went on through the dark to the cottage, thinking that Meenie Douglas was the most beautiful and sweet and warm-hearted companion she was ever likely to meet with through all her life, and wondering how it came about that Ronald and Mr. Murray and the rest of them had been so disgracefully neglectful in not inviting her to the New Year's festivities on the forthcoming Monday. Ronald, at least, should hear of his remissness, and that at once.

CHAPTER VII.

AN EYRIE.

'Come along, Harry, my lad,' the young keeper cried next morning to his faithful terrier, 'and we'll go and have a look up the hill.'

He slipped a cartridge or two into his pocket, more by custom than design as it were; put his gun over his shoulder; and went out into the cold clear air, the little terrier trotting at his heels. The vague unrest of the previous evening was altogether gone now; he was his natural self again; as he strode along the road he was lightly singing—but also under his breath, lest any herd-laddie should overhear—

Roses red, roses white,

Roses in the lane,

Tell me, roses white and red,

Where is Meenie gane!

And when he got as far as the inn he found that the mail-cart had just arrived, so he turned aside to have a little gossip with the small group of shepherds and others who had come to see whether there were any newspapers or letters for them. He was a great favourite with these; perhaps also an object of envy to the younger of the lads; for he lived the life of a gentleman, one might say, and was his own master; moreover, where was there any one who looked so smart and dressed so neatly—his Glengarry cap, his deerstalking jacket, his knickerbockers, his hand-knitted socks, and white spats, and shoes, being all so trim and well cared for, even in this wild winter weather? There was some laughing and joking about the forthcoming supper-party; and more than one of them would have had him go inside with them to have 'a glass,' but he was proof against that temptation; while the yellow-haired Nelly, who was at work within, happening to turn her eyes to the window, and catching sight of him standing there, and being jealous of his popularity with all those shepherd-lads and gillies, suddenly said to her mistress—

'There's Ronald outside, mem, and I think he might go away and shoot something for the gentleman's dinner.'

'Very well,' said Mrs. Murray; 'go and say that I would be very much obliged to him indeed if he would bring me a hare or two the first time he is going up the hill, but at his own convenience, to be sure.'

But that was not the message that Nelly went to deliver. She wanted to show her authority before all these half-critical idlers, and also, as a good-looking lass, her independence and her mastery over men-folk.

'Ronald,' said she, at the door of the inn, 'I think you might just as well be going up the hill and bringing us down a hare or two, instead of standing about here doing nothing.'

'Is that Highland manners, lass?' he said, but with perfect good humour. 'I'm thinking ye might say "if ye please." But I'll get ye a hare or two, sure enough, and ye'll keep the first dance for me on Monday night.'

'Indeed I am not sure that I will be at the dancing at all,' retorted the pretty Nelly; but this was merely to cover her retreat—she did not wish to have any further conversation before that lot of idle half-grinning fellows.

As for Ronald, he bade them good-morning, and went lightly on his way again. He was going up the hill anyway; and he might as well bring down a brace of hares for Mrs. Murray; so, after walking along the road for a mile or so, he struck off across some rough and partly marshy ground, and presently began to climb the lower slopes of Clebrig, getting ever a wider and wider view as he ascended, and always when he turned finding beneath him the wind-stirred waters of the loch, where a tiny dark object, slow-moving near the shores, told him where the salmon fishers were patiently pursuing their sport.

No, there were no more unsettling notions in his brain; here he was master and monarch of all he surveyed; and if he was profoundly unconscious of the ease with which he breasted this steep hillside, at least he rejoiced in the ever-widening prospect—as lochs and hills and stretches of undulating moorland seemed to stretch ever and ever outward until, afar in the north, he could make out the Kyle of Tongue and the faint line of the sea. It was a wild and changeable day; now filled with gloom, again bursting forth into a blaze of yellow sunshine; while ever and anon some flying tag of cloud would come sweeping across the hillside and engulf him, so that all he could then discern was the rough hard heather and bits of rock around his feet. It was just as one of these transient clouds was clearing off that he was suddenly startled by a loud noise—as of iron rattling on stones; and so bewildering was this unusual noise in the intense silence reigning there that instinctively he wheeled round and lowered his gun. And then again, the next second, what he saw was about as bewildering as what he had heard—a great creature, quite close by, and yet only half visible in the clearing mist, with huge outspread wings, dragging something after it across the broken rocks. The truth flashed upon him in an instant; it was an eagle caught in a fox-trap; the strange noise was the trap striking here and there on a stone. At once he put down his gun on an exposed knoll and gave chase, with the greatest difficulty subduing the eager desire of the yelping Harry to rush forward and attack the huge bird by himself. It was a rough and ludicrous pursuit but it ended in capture—though here, again, circumspection was necessary, for the eagle, with all his neck-feathers bristling, struck at him again and again with the talons that were free, only one foot having been caught in the trap. But the poor beast was quite exhausted; an examination of the trap showed Ronald that he must have flown with this weight attached to his leg all the way from Ben Ruach, some half dozen miles away; and now, though there was yet an occasional automatic motion of the beak or the claws, as though he would still strike for liberty, he submitted to be firmly seized while the iron teeth of the trap were being opened. And then Ronald looked at his prize (but still with a careful grip). He was a splendid specimen of the golden eagle—a bird that is only found here and there in Sutherlandshire, though the keepers are no longer allowed to kill them—and, despite himself, looking at the noble creature, he began to ask himself casuistical questions. Would not this make a handsome gift for Meenie?—he could send the bird to Macleay at Inverness, and have it stuffed and returned without anybody knowing. Moreover, the keepers were only charged to abstain from shooting such golden eagles as they might find on their own ground; and he knew from the make of the trap that this one must have come from a different shooting altogether; it was not a Clebrig eagle at all. But he looked at the fierce eye of the beast, and its undaunted mien; he knew that, if it could, it would fight to the death; and he felt a kind of pride in the creature, and admiration for it, and even a sort of sympathy and fellow-feeling.

'My good chap,' said he, 'I'm not going to kill you in cold blood—not me. Go back to your wife and weans, wherever they are. Off!'

And he tried to throw the big beast into the air. But this was not like flinging up a released pigeon. The eagle fell forward, and stumbled twice ere it could get its great wings into play; and then, instead of trying to soar upward, it went flapping away down wind—increasing in speed, until he could see it, now rising somewhat, cross the lower windings of Loch Naver, and make away for the northern skies.

'It's a God's mercy,' he was saying to himself, as he went back to get his gun, 'that I met the creature in the daytime; had it been at night, I would hae thought it was the devil.'

Some two or three hundred feet still farther up the hillside he came to his own eyrie—a great mass of rock, affording shelter from either southerly or easterly winds, and surrounded with some smaller stones; and here he sate contentedly down to look around him—Harry crouched at his feet, his nose between his paws, but his eyes watchful. And this wide stretch of country between Clebrig and the northern sea would have formed a striking prospect in any kind of weather—the strange and savage loneliness of the moorlands; the solitary lakes with never a sign of habitation along their shores; the great ranges of mountains whose silent recesses are known only to the stag and the hind; but on such a morning as this it was all as unstable and unreal as it was wildly beautiful and picturesque;—for the hurrying weather made a kind of phantasmagoria of the solid land; bursts of sunlight that struck on the yellow straths were followed by swift gray cloud-wreaths blotting out the world; and again and again the white snow-peaks of the hills would melt away and become invisible only to reappear again shining and glorious in a sky of brilliant blue; until, indeed, it seemed as if the earth had no substance and fixed foundation at all, but was a mere dream, an aerial vision, changed and moved and controlled by some unseen and capricious hand.

And then again, on the dark and wind-driven lake far below him, that small object was still to be made out—like some minute, black, crawling water insect. He took out his glass from its leather case, adjusted it, and placed it to his eye. What was this? In the world suddenly brought near—and yet dimly near, as though a film interposed—he could see that some one was standing up in the stern of the boat, and another crouching down, by his side. Was that a clip or the handle of the landing-net; in other words, was it a salmon or a kelt that was fighting them there? He swept the dull waters of the loch with his glass; but could make out no splashing or springing anywhere near them. And then he could see by the curve of the rod that the fish was close at hand; there was a minute or two longer of anxiety; then a sudden movement on the part of the crouching person—and behold a silver-white object gleams for a moment in the air and then disappears!

'Good!' he says to himself—with a kind of sigh of satisfaction as if he had himself taken part in the struggle and capture.

How peaceful looks the little hamlet of Inver-Mudal! The wild storm-clouds, and the bursts of sunlight, and the howling winds seem to sail over it unheeded; down in the hollow there surely all is quiet and still. And is Meenie singing at her work, by the window; or perhaps superintending Maggie's lessons; or gone away on one of the lonely walks that she is fond of—up by the banks of the Mudal Water? It is a bleak and a bare stream; there is scarce a bush on its banks; and yet he knows of no other river—however hung with foliage and flowers—that is so sweet and sacred and beautiful. What was it he wrote in the bygone year—one summer day when he had seen her go by—and he, too, was near the water, and could hear the soft murmuring over the pebbles? He called the idle verses

MUDAL IN JUNE.

Mudal, that comes from the lonely mere,

Silent or whispering, vanishing ever,

Know you of aught that concerns us here?—

You, youngest of all God's creatures, a river.

Born of a yesterday's summer shower,

And hurrying on with your restless motion,

Silent or whispering, every hour,

To lose yourself in the great lone ocean.

Your banks remain; but you go by,

Through day and through darkness swiftly sailing:

Say, do you hear the curlew cry,

And the snipe in the night-time hoarsely wailing?

Do you watch the wandering hinds in the morn;

Do you hear the grouse-cock crow in the heather;

Do you see the lark spring up from the corn,

All in the radiant summer weather?

O Mudal stream, how little you know

That Meenie has loved you, and loves you ever;

And while to your ocean home you flow,

She says good-bye to her well-loved river!—

O see you her now—she is coming anigh—

And the flower in her hand her aim discloses:

Laugh, Mudal, your thanks as you're hurrying by—

For she flings you a rose, in the month of roses!

Well, that was written as long ago as last midsummer; and was Meenie still as far away from him as then, and as ignorant as ever of his mute worship of her, and of these verses that he had written about her? But he indulged in no day-dreams. Meenie was as near to him as he had any right to expect—giving him of an assured and constant friendship; and as for these passing rhymes—well, he tried to make them as worthy of her as he could, though he knew she should never see them; polishing them, in so far as they might be said to have any polish at all, in honour of her; and, what is more to the point, at once cutting out and destroying any of them that seemed to savour either of affectation or of echo. No: the rude rhymes should at least be honest and of his own invention and method; imitations he could not, even in fancy, lay at Meenie's feet. And sometimes, it is true, a wild imagination would get hold of him—a whimsical thing, that he laughed at: supposing that life—the actual real life here at Inver-Mudal—were suddenly to become a play, a poem, a romantic tale; and that Meenie was to fall in love with him; and he to grow rich all at once; and the Stuarts of Glengask to be quite complaisant: why, then, would it not be a fine thing to bring all this collection of verses to Meenie, and say 'There, now, it is not much; but it shows you that I have been thinking of you all through these years?' Yes, it would be a very fine thing, in a romance. But, as has been said, he was one not given to day-dreams; and he accepted the facts of life with much equanimity; and when he had written some lines about Meenie that he regarded with a little affection—as suggesting, let us say, something of the glamour of her clear Highland eyes, and the rose-sweetness of her nature, and the kindness of her heart—and when it seemed rather a pity that she should never see them—if only as a tribute to her gentleness offered by a perfectly unbiassed spectator—he quickly reminded himself that it was not his business to write verses but to trap foxes and train dogs and shoot hoodie-crows. He was not vain of his rhymes—except where Meenie's name came in. Besides, he was a very busy person at most seasons of the year; and men, women, and children alike showed a considerable fondness for him, so that his life was full of sympathies and interests; and altogether he cannot be regarded, nor did he regard himself, as a broken-hearted or blighted being. His temperament was essentially joyous and healthy; the passing moment was enough; nothing pleased him so much as to have a grouse, or a hare, or a ptarmigan, or a startled hind appear within sure and easy range, and to say 'Well, go on. Take your life with you. Rather a pleasant day this: why shouldn't you enjoy it as well as I?'

However, on this blustering and brilliant morning he had not come all the way up hither merely to get a brace of hares for Mrs. Murray, nor yet to be a distant spectator of the salmon-fishing going on far below. Under this big rock there was a considerable cavity, and right at the back of that he had wedged in a wooden box lined with tin, and fitted with a lid and a lock. It was useful in the autumn; he generally kept in it a bottle of whisky and a few bottles of soda-water, lest any of the gentlemen should find themselves thirsty on the way home from the stalking. But on this occasion, when he got out the key and unlocked the little chest, it was not any refreshment of that kind he was after. He took out a copy-book—a cheap paper-covered thing such as is used in juvenile schools in Scotland—and turned to the first page, which was scrawled over with pencilled lines that had apparently been written in time of rain, for there were plenty of smudges there. It had become a habit of his that, when in these lonely rambles among the hills, he found some further rhymes about Meenie come into his head, he would jot them down in this copy-book, deposit it in the little chest, and probably not see them again for weeks and weeks, when, as on the present occasion, he would come with fresh eyes to see it there were any worth or value in them. Not that he took such trouble with anything else. His rhyming epistles to his friends, his praises of his terrier Harry, his songs for the Inver-Mudal lasses to sing—these things were thrown off anyhow, and had to take their chance. But his solitary intercommunings away amid these alpine wastes were of a more serious cast; insensibly they gathered dignity and repose from the very silence and awfulness of the solitudes around; there was no idle and pastoral singing here about roses in the lane. He regarded the blurred lines, striving to think of them as having been written by somebody else:

Through the long sad centuries Clebrig slept,

Nor a sound the silence broke,

Till a morning in Spring a strange new thing

Betrayed him and he awoke;

And he laughed, and his joyous laugh was heard

From Erribol far to Tongue;

And his granite veins deep down were stirred,

And the great old mountain grew young.

'Twas Love Meenie he saw, and she walked by the shore,

And she sang so sweet and so clear,

That the sound of her voice made him see again

The dawn of the world appear;

And at night he spake to the listening stars

And charged them a guard to keep

On the hamlet of Inver-Mudal there

And the maid in her innocent sleep,

Till the years should go by; and they should see

Love Meenie take her stand

'Mong the maidens around the footstool of God—

She gentlest of all the band!

He tore the leaf out, folded it, and put it in his pocket.

'Another one for the little bookie that's never to be seen,' said he, with a kind of laugh; for indeed he treated himself to a good deal of satire, and would rather have blown his brains out than that the neighbourhood should have known he was writing these verses about Meenie Douglas.

'And hey, Harry, lad!' he called, as he locked the little cupboard again, 'I'm thinking we must be picking up a hare now, if it's for soup for the gentleman's dinner the night. So ye were bauld enough to face an eagle? I doubt, if both his feet had been free, but ye might have had a lift in the air, and seen the heavens and the earth spread out below ye.'

He shouldered his gun and set out again—making his way towards some rockier ground, where he very soon bagged the brace of hares he wanted. He tied their legs together, slung them over his shoulder, and began to descend the mountain again—usually keeping his eye on the minute black speck on the loch, lest there might be occasion again for his telescope.

He took the two hares—they looked remarkably like cats, by the way, for they were almost entirely white—into the inn, and threw them on to the chair in the passage.

'There you are, Nelly, lass,' said he, as the fair-haired Highland maid happened to go by.

'All right,' said she, which was no great thanks.

But Mr. Murray, in the parlour, had heard the keeper's voice.

'Ronald,' he cried, 'come in for a minute, will ye?'

Mr. Murray was a little, wiry, gray-haired, good-natured looking man, who, when Ronald entered the parlour, was seated at the table, and evidently puzzling his brains over a blank sheet of paper that lay before him.

'Your sister Maggie wass here this morning,' the inn-keeper said—still with his eyes fixed upon the paper—'and she wass saying that maybe Meenie—Miss Douglas—would like to come with the others on Monday night—ay, and maybe Mrs. Douglas herself too as well—but they would hef to be asked. And Kott pless me, it is not an easy thing, if you hef to write a letter, and that is more polite than asking—it is not an easy thing, I am sure. Ronald,' he said, raising his eyes and turning round, 'would you tek a message?'

'Where?' said Ronald—but he knew well enough, and was only seeking time to make an excuse.

'To Mrs. Douglas and the young lass; and tell them we will be glad if they will come with the others on Monday night—for the doctor is away from home, and why should they be left by themselves? Will you tek the message, Ronald?'

'How could I do that?' Ronald said. 'It's you that's giving the party, Mr. Murray.'

'But they know you so ferry well—and—and there will be no harm if they come and see the young lads and lasses having a reel together—ay, and a song too. And if Mrs. Douglas could not be bothered, it's you that could bring the young lady—oh yes, I know ferry well—if you will ask her, she will come.'

'I am sure no,' Ronald said hastily, and with an embarrassment he sought in vain to conceal. 'If Miss Douglas cares to come at all, it will be when you ask her. And why should ye write, man? Go down the road and ask her yourself—I mean, ask Mrs. Douglas; it's as simple as simple. What for should ye write a letter? Would ye send it through the post too? That's ceremony for next-door neighbours!'

'But Ronald, lad, if ye should see the young lass herself——'

'No, no; take your own message, Mr. Murray; they can but give you a civil answer.'

Mr. Murray was left doubting. It was clear that the awful shadow of Glengask and Orosay still dwelt over the doctor's household; and that the innkeeper was not at all sure as to what Mrs. Douglas would say to an invitation that she and her daughter Meenie—or Williamina, as the mother called her—should be present at a merry-meeting of farm lads, keepers, gillies, and kitchen wenches.

CHAPTER VIII.

THE NEW YEAR'S FEAST.

Loud and shrill in the empty barn arose the strains of the Athole March, warning the young lasses to hasten with the adjustment of their ribbons, and summoning the young lads about to look sharp and escort them. The long and narrow table was prettily laid out; two candelabra instead of one shed a flood of light on the white cover; the walls were decorated with evergreens and with Meenie's resplendent paper blossoms; the peats in the improvised fireplace burned merrily. And when the company began to arrive, in twos and threes, some bashful and hesitating, others merry and jocular, there was a little embarrassment about the taking of places until Ronald laid down his pipes and set to work to arrange them. The American gentleman had brought in Mrs. Murray in state, and they were at the head of the table; while Ronald himself took the foot, in order, as he said, to keep order—if he were able—among the lasses who had mostly congregated there. Then the general excitement and talking was hushed for a minute, while the innkeeper said grace; and then the girls—farm wenches, some of them, and Nelly, the pretty parlour-maid, and Finnuala, the cook's youngest sister, who was but lately come from Uist and talked the quaintest English, and Mr. Murray's two nieces from Tongue, and the other young lasses about the inn—all of them became demure and proper in their manner, for they were about to enjoy the unusual sensation of being waited upon.

This, of course, was Ronald's doing. There had been a question as to which of the maids were to bring in supper for so large a number; so he addressed himself to the young fellows who were standing about.

'You lazy laddies,' he said, 'what are ye thinking o'? Here's a chance for ye, if there's a pennyworth o' spunk among the lot o' ye. They lasses there wait on ye the whole year long, and make the beds for ye, and redd the house; I'm thinking ye might do worse than wait on them for one night, and bring in the supper when they sit down. They canna do both things; and the fun o' the night belongs to them or to nobody at all.'

At first there was a little shamefaced reluctance—it was 'lasses' work,' they said—until a great huge Highland tyke—a Ross-shire drover who happened to be here on a visit—a man of about six feet four, with a red beard big enough for a raven to build in, declared that he would lend a hand, if no one else did; and forthwith brought his huge fist down on the bar-room table to give emphasis to his words. There was some suspicion that this unwonted gallantry was due to the fact that he had a covetous eye on Jeannie, Donald Macrae's lass, who was a very superior dairy-mistress, and was also heir-presumptive to her father's farmstead and about a score of well-favoured cattle; but that was neither here nor there; he was as good as his word; he organised the brigade, and led it; and if he swallowed a stiff glass of whisky before setting out from the kitchen for the barn, with a steaming plate of soup in each hand, that was merely to steady his nerves and enable him to face the merriment of the whole gang of those girls. And then when this red-bearded giant of a Ganymede and his attendants had served every one, they fetched in their own plates, and sat down; and time was allowed them; for the evening was young yet, and no one in a hurry.

Now if Mr. Hodson had been rather doubtful lest his presence might produce some little restraint, he was speedily reassured, to his own great satisfaction, for he was really a most good-natured person and anxious to be friendly with everybody. In the general fun and jollity he was not even noticed; he could ask Mrs. Murray any questions he chose without suspicion of being observant; the young lady next him—who was Jeannie Macrae herself, and to whom he strove to be as gallant as might be—was very winsome and gentle and shy, and spoke in a more Highland fashion than he had heard yet; while otherwise he did not fare at all badly at this rustic feast, for there were boiled fowls and roast hares after the soup, and there was plenty of ale passed round, and tea for those who wished it. Nay, on the contrary, he had rather to push himself forward and assert himself ere he could get his proper share of the work that was going on. He insisted upon carving for at least half a dozen neighbours; he was most attentive to the pretty Highland girl next him; and laughed heartily at Mrs. Murray's Scotch stories, which he did not quite understand; and altogether entered into the spirit of the evening. But there was no doubt it was at the other end of the table that the fun was getting fast and furious; and just as little doubt that Ronald the keeper was suffering considerably at the hands of those ungrateful lasses for whom he had done so much. Like a prudent man, he held his tongue and waited his opportunity; taking their teasing with much good humour; and paying no heed to the other young fellows who were urging him to face and silence the saucy creatures. And his opportunity came in the most unexpected way. One of the girls, out of pure mischief, and without the least notion that she would be overheard, rapped lightly on the table, and said: 'Mr. Ronald Strang will now favour us with a song.' To her amazement and horror there was an almost instant silence; for an impression had travelled up the table that some announcement was about to be made.

'What is it now? What are you about down there?' their host called to them—and the silence, to her who had unwittingly caused it, was terrible.

But another of the girls, still bent on mischief, was bold enough to say.

'Oh, it's Ronald that's going to sing us a song.'

'Sing ye a song, ye limmer, ere ye're through with your supper?' Ronald said sharply. 'I'd make ye sing yourself—with a leather strap—if I had my will o' ye.'

But this was not heard up the table.

'Very well, then, Ronald,' the innkeeper cried, graciously. 'Come away with it now. There is no one at all can touch you at that.'

'Oh, do not ask him,' the pretty Nelly said—apparently addressing the company, but keeping her cruel eyes on him. 'Do not ask Ronald to sing. Ronald is such a shy lad.'

He glanced at her; and then he seemed to make up his mind.

'Very well, then,' said he, 'I'll sing ye a song—and let's have a chorus, lads.'

Now in Sutherlandshire, as in many other parts of the Highlands, the chief object of singing in company is to establish a chorus; and the audience, no matter whether they have heard the air or not, so soon as it begins, proceed to beat time with hand and heel, forming a kind of accompanying tramp, as it were; so that by the time the end of the first verse is reached, if they have not quite caught the tune, at least they can make some kind of rhythmic noise with the refrain. And on this occasion, if the words were new—and Ronald, on evil intent, took care to pronounce them clearly—the air was sufficiently like 'Jenny dang the Weaver' for the general chorus to come in, in not more than half a dozen keys. This was what Ronald sang—and he sang it in that resonant tenor of his, and in a rollicking fashion—just as if it were an impromptu, and not a weapon that he had carefully forged long ago, and hidden away to serve some such chance as the present:

O lasses, lasses, gang your ways,

And dust the house, or wash the claes,

Ye put me in a kind o' blaze—