'But who, Miss Carry?' he said, as he patted her hot hand.

She looked at him wonderingly.

'Why, don't you know? Did you never hear? The miserable creature that

was allowed to speak ill of our Ronald. Ah! do you think I have

forgotten? Does Jack Huysen think I have forgotten? No, I will not

forget--you can tell him, I will not forget--I will not forget--I will

not forget--'

She was growing more and more vehement; and to pacify her he had to

assure her that he himself would see this matter put straight; and that

it was all right, and that ample amends would be made.

Of course, he paid no great attention to these delirious wanderings; but

that same evening, when he had gone into the smoking-room to report to

Jack Huysen how things were going, this complaint of Miss Carry's

happened to recur to his mind.

'Look here, Jack, what's this that she's always talking about--seems to

worry her a good deal--some newspaper article--and you're mixed up in

it, too--something you appear to have said or done about that fellow her

father took such a fancy for--I mean, when they were in Scotland----'

'Oh, I know,' said the editor, and he blushed to the very roots of his

long-flowing hair. 'I know. But it's an old story. It's all forgotten

now.'

'Well, it is not,' the young Doctor said 'and that's the fact. She

worries about it continually. Very strange, now, how her mind just

happened to take that bent. I don't remember that we were talking much

about the Scotch Highlands. But they must have been in her head when

she fell ill; and now it's nothing else. Well, what is it about the

newspaper article, anyway?'

'Why, nothing to make a fuss about,' Jack Huysen said, but rather

uneasily. 'I thought it was all forgotten. She said as much. Wonder

you don't remember the article--suppose you missed it--but it was about

this same Highland fellow, and some verses of his--it was young Regan

wrote it--confound him, I'd have kicked him into Lake Michigan before I

let him write a line in the paper, if I'd have known there was going to

be this trouble about it. And I don't think now there was much to find

fault with--I only glanced over it before sending it to her, and it

seemed to me favourable enough--of course, there was a little of the _de

haut en bas_ business--you know how young fellows like to write--but it

was favourable--very favourable, I should say--however, she chose to

work up a pretty high old row on the strength of it when she came home,

and I had my work cut out for me before I could pacify her. Why, you

don't say she's at that again? Women are such curious creatures; they

hold on to things so; I wonder, now, why it is she takes such an

interest in that fellow--after all this time?'

'Just as likely as not the merest coincidence--some trifle that got hold

of her brain when she first became delirious,' the young Doctor said.

'I suppose the boating, and the lake, and all that, brought back

recollections of the Highlands; and she seems to have been fascinated by

the life over there--the wildness of it caught her imagination, I

suppose. She must have been in considerable danger once or twice, I

should guess; or perhaps she is mixing that up with the mishap of the

other day. Well, I know I wish her father were here. We can't do more

than what is being done; still, I wish he were here. If he can get

through to Glen Falls to-night, you may depend on it he'll come along

somehow.'

By this time Jack Huysen was nervously pacing up and down--there was no

one but themselves in the room.

'Now, look here, Tom,' he said, presently, 'I wish you would tell me,

honour bright: was it a squall that caught the boat, or was it downright

carelessness on my part? I may as well know. I can't take more shame

to myself anyhow--and to let you jump in after her, too, when I'm a

better swimmer than you are--I must have lost my head altogether----'

'And much good you'd have done if you had jumped in,' the Doctor said,

'and left the two women to manage the boat. How should we have got

picked up, then?'

'But about that gybing, now--was it my fault?'

'No, it was mine,' the Doctor said curtly. 'I shouldn't have given up

the tiller. Fact is, the girls were just mad about that "Dancing in the

Barn"; and I was fool enough to yield to them. I tell you, Jack, it

isn't half as easy as it looks steering a boat that's running fair

before the wind; I don't blame you at all; I dare say there was a nasty

puff that caught you when you weren't looking; anyhow, it's a blessing

no one was hit by the boom--that was what I feared at first for Miss

Hodson when I found her insensible--I was afraid she had been hit about

the head----'

'And you don't think it was absolute carelessness?' the other said

quickly. 'Mind, I was steering straight for the pier, as you said.'

'Oh, well,' said the young Doctor evasively, 'if you had noticed in

time, you know--or when I called to you--but perhaps it was too late

then. It's no use going back on that now; what we have to do now is to

fight this fever as well as we can.'

'I would take it over from her if I could,' Jack Huysen said, 'and

willingly enough.'

It was not until early the next morning that Mr. Hodson arrived. He

looked dreadfully pale and harassed and fatigued; for the fact was he

was not in Chicago when they telegraphed for him; some business affairs

had called him away to the south; and the news of his daughter's illness

followed him from place to place until it found him in a remote corner

of Louisiana, whence he had travelled night and day without giving

himself an hour's rest. And now he would not stay to dip his hands and

face in cold water after his long and anxious journey; he merely asked a

few hurried questions of the Doctor; and then, stealthily and on

tip-toe, and determined to show no sign of alarm or perturbation, he

went into Carry's room.

She had been very delirious during the night--talking wildly and

frantically in spite of all their efforts to soothe her; but now she lay

exhausted, with the flushed face, and bluish lips, and eager, restless

eyes so strangely unlike the Carry of other days. She recognised him at

once--but not as a new-comer: she appeared to think he had been there

all the time.

'Have you seen him, pappa?' she said, in that eager way. 'Did you see

him when you were out?'

'Who, darling?' he said, as he sate down beside her and took her wasted

hand in his.

'Why, Ronald, to be sure! Oh, something dreadful was about to happen to

him--I don't know what it was--something dreadful and dreadful--and I

called out--at the window--at the window there--and nurse says it is all

right now--all right now----'

'Oh yes, indeed,' her father said gently, 'you may depend it is all

right with Ronald now. Don't you fret about that.'

'Ah, but we neglected him, pappa, we neglected him; and I worst of any,'

she went on, in that panting, breathless way. 'It was always the

same--always thinking of doing something for him, and never doing it. I

meant to have written to the innkeeper for his address in Glasgow; but

no--that was forgotten too. And then the spliced rod, that George was

to have got for me--I wanted Ronald to have the best salmon-rod that

America could make--but it was all talking--all talking. Ah, it was

never talking with him when he could do us a service--and the other

boatmen getting money, of course--and he scarcely a "thank you" when we

came away. Why didn't George get the fishing-rod?----'

'It's all right, Carry, darling,' her father said, whispering to her,

'you lie quiet now, and get well, and you'll see what a splendid

salmon-rod we'll get for Ronald. Not that it would be of much use to

him, you see, when he's in Glasgow with his books and studies; but it

will show him we have not forgotten him. Don't you trouble about it,

now; I will see it is all right; and you will give it to him yourself,

if we go over there next spring, to try the salmon-fishing again.'

'Then you will take George with you, pappa,' she said, regarding him

with her burning eyes.

'Oh yes; and you----'

'Not me, not me,' she said, shaking her head. 'I am going away. The

Doctor doesn't know; I know. They have been very kind; but--but--ask

them, pappa, not to bother me to take things now--I want to be let

alone, now you are here--it will only be for a little while----'

'Why, what nonsense you talk!' he said--but his heart was struck with a

sudden fear, for these few straggling sentences she had uttered without

any appearance of delirium. 'I tell you, you must hasten to get well and

strong; for when George and you and I go to Scotland, there will be a

great deal of travelling to do. You know we've got to fix on that piece

of land, and see how it is all to be arranged and managed, so that

George will have a comfortable little estate of his own when he comes of

age; or maybe, if it is a pretty place, we may be selfish and keep it in

our own hands--eh, Carry?--and then, you see, we shall have to have

Ronald travel about with us, to give us his advice; and the weather may

be bad, you know, you'll have to brace yourself up. There, now, I'm not

going to talk to you any more just now. Lie still and quiet; and mind

you do everything the Doctor bids you--why, you to talk like that!--you!

I never thought you would give in, Carry: why, even as a schoolgirl you

had the pluck of a dozen! Don't you give in; and you'll see if we

haven't those two cobles out on Loch Naver before many months are over.'

She shook her head languidly; her eyes were closed now. And he was for

slipping out of the room but that she clung to his hand for a moment.

'Pappa,' she said, in a low voice, and she opened her eyes and regarded

him--and surely at this moment, as he said to himself, she seemed

perfectly sane and reasonable, 'I want you to promise me something.'

'Yes, yes,' he said quickly: what was it he would not have promised in

order to soothe and quiet her mind at such a time?

'I don't know about going with you and George,' she said, slowly, and

apparently with much difficulty. 'It seems a long way off--a long

time--and--and I hardly care now what happens. But you will look after

Ronald; you must promise me that, pappa; and tell him I was sorry; I

suppose he heard the shooting was taken, and would know why we did not

go over in the autumn; but you will find him out, pappa, and see what he

is doing; and don't let him think we forgot him altogether.'

'Carry, darling, you leave that to me; it will be all right with Ronald,

I promise you,' her father said eagerly. 'Why, to think you should have

been worrying about that! Oh! you will see it will be all right about

Ronald, never fear!--what would you say, now, if I were to telegraph to

him to come over and see you, if only you make haste and get well?'

These assurances, at all events, seemed to pacify her somewhat; and as

she now lay still and quiet, her father stole out of the room, hoping

that perhaps the long-prayed-for sleep might come to calm the fevered

brain.

But the slow hours passed, and, so far from any improvement becoming

visible, her condition grew more and more serious. The two doctors--for

Doctor Tilley had summoned in additional aid--were assiduous enough;

but, when questioned, they gave evasive answers; and when Mr. Hodson

begged to be allowed to telegraph to a celebrated Boston physician, who

was also a particular friend of his own, asking him to come along at

once, they acquiesced, it is true, but it was clearly with the view of

satisfying Mr. Hodson's mind, rather than with any hope of advantage to

the patient. From him, indeed, they scarcely tried to conceal the

extreme gravity of the case. Emma Kerfoot and Mrs. Lalor were quieted

with vague assurances; but Mr. Hodson knew of the peril in which his

daughter lay; and, as it was impossible for him to go to sleep, and as

his terrible anxiety put talking to these friends out of the question,

he kept mostly to his own room, walking up and down, and fearing every

moment lest direr news should arrive. For they had been much of

companions, these two; and she was an only daughter; and her bright,

frank, lovable character--that he had watched from childhood growing

more and more beautiful and coming into closer communion with himself as

year after year went by--had wound its tendrils round his heart. That

Carry, of all people in the world, should be taken away from them so,

seemed so strange and unaccountable: she that was ever so full of life

and gaiety and confidence. The mother had been an invalid during most

of her married life; the boy George had not the strongest of

constitutions; but Carry was always to the fore with her audacious

spirits and light-heartedness, ready for anything, and the best of

travelling companions. And if she were to go, what would his life be to

him?--the light of it gone, the gladness of it vanished for ever.

That afternoon the delirium returned; and she became more and more

wildly excited; until the paroxysm passed beyond all bounds. She

imagined that Ronald was in some deadly peril; he was alone, with no one

to help; his enemies had hold of him; they were carrying him off, to

thrust him into some black lake; she could hear the waters roaring in

the dark. It was in vain that the nurse tried to calm her and to reason

with her; the wild, frightened eyes were fixed on vacancy; and again and

again she made as if she would rush to his help, and would then sink

back exhausted and moaning, and heaping reproaches on those who were

allowing Ronald to be stricken down unaided. Then the climax came, quite

unexpectedly. The nurse--who happened at the moment to be alone with

her in the room--went to the side-table for some more ice; and she was

talking as she went; and trying to make her charge believe that

everything was going on well enough with this friend of hers in

Scotland. But all of a sudden, when the nurse's back was thus turned,

the girl sprang from the bed and rushed to the window. She tore aside

the curtains that had been tied together to deaden the light; she tugged

and strained at the under sash; she was for throwing herself out--to fly

to Ronald's succour.

'See, see, see!' she cried, and she wrenched herself away from the

nurse's frightened grasp. 'Oh, don't you see that they are killing

him--they are killing him--and none to help! Ronald--Ronald! Oh, what

shall I do? Nurse, nurse, help me with the window--quick--quick--oh,

don't you hear him calling?--and they are driving him down to the

lake--he will be in the water soon--and

lost--lost--lost--Ronald!--Ronald!--'

Nay, by this time she had actually succeeded in raising the under sash

of the window a few inches--notwithstanding that the nurse clung round

her, and tried to hold her arms, while she uttered shriek after shriek

to call attention; and there is no doubt that the girl, grown quite

frantic, would have succeeded in opening the window and throwing herself

out, had not Mrs. Lalor, alarmed by the shrieking of the nurse, rushed

in. Between them they got her back into bed; and eventually she calmed

down somewhat; for, indeed, this paroxysm had robbed her of all her

remaining strength. She lay in a kind of stupor now; she paid no heed

to anything that was said to her; only her eyes were restless--when any

one entered the room.

Dr. Tilley was with her father; the younger man was apparently calm,

though rather pale; Mr. Hodson made no effort to conceal his agony of

anxiety.

'I can only tell you what is our opinion,' the young Doctor said,

speaking for himself and his brother practitioner. 'We should be as

pleased as you could be to have Dr. Macartney here; but the delay--well,

the delay might prove dangerous. Her temperature is 107--you know what

that means?'

'But this rolling up in a wet sheet--there is a risk, isn't there?' the

elder man said; and how keenly he was watching the expression of the

young Doctor's face!

'I have only seen it used in extreme cases,' was the answer. 'If she

were my own daughter, or sister, that is what I would do.'

'You have a right to speak--you have already saved her life once,' her

father said.

'If we could only bring about a profuse perspiration,' the young Doctor

said, a little more eagerly--for he had been maintaining a

professionally dispassionate manner; 'and then if that should end in a

long deep sleep--everything would go well then. But at present every

hour that passes is against us--and her temperature showing no sign of

abating.'

'Very well,' her father said, after a moment's involuntary hesitation.

'If you say the decision rests with me, I will decide. We will not wait

for Macartney. Do what you propose to do--I know you think it is for

the best.'

And so it proved. Not once, but twice, within a space of seven days,

had this young Doctor saved Carry Hodson's life. That evening they were

all seated at dinner in the big dining-hall--Mrs. Lalor and her sister,

Jack Huysen, and Carry's father--though the food before them did not

seem to concern them much. They were talking amongst themselves, but

rather absently and disconnectedly; and, what was strange enough, they

spoke in rather low tones, as if that were of any avail. Dr. Tilley

came in, and walked quickly up to the table; and quite unwittingly he

put his hand on Emma Kerfoot's shoulder.

'I have good news,' said he, and there was a kind of subdued triumph in

his eyes. 'She is sleeping as soundly--as soundly as any human being

ever slept--everything has come off well--why, I am as happy as if I had

been declared President!' But instantly he perceived that this

exuberance of triumph was not in accordance with professional gravity.

'I think there is every reason to be satisfied with the prospect,' he

continued in more measured tones, 'and now that Dr. Sargent is with her,

and the night nurse just come down, I think I will take the opportunity

to get something to eat--for I have forgotten about that since

breakfast.'

'Oh, Tom!' cried Miss Kerfoot reproachfully; and presently everybody at

the table was showering attentions on this young man.

'And may I go in and see her now?' said Miss Kerfoot, preparing to steal

away.

'No,' was the peremptory answer. 'No one. Every half hour of a sleep

like that is worth its weight in gold--well, that's a muddle, but you

know what I mean. It's worth a cart-load of gold, anyway. I hope

she'll go on for twenty-four hours, or thirty-six, for the matter of

that. Oh, I can tell you it is quite refreshing to look at her--talk

about the sleep of an infant!--you never saw an infant sleeping as deep

and sound as that; and I shouldn't wonder now if her temperature were

down another degree by midnight.'

But he saw that Mr. Hodson was still terribly agitated.

'Well, sir, would you like to go in and see her for a moment? I have

told the nurse to leave the door half an inch open, and there's a screen

to keep off the draught; I dare say we can slip in without disturbing

her.'

And so it was that Mr. Hodson saw his daughter again--not with flushed

cheeks and dilated eye, but lying still and calm, a very weight of sleep

appearing to rest on her eyelids. And when he came out of the room

again, he pressed the young man's hand--it was a message of thanks too

deep for words.

All that night she slept; and all next day she slept, without a moment's

intermission. When, at length, she opened her eyes, and stirred a

little, Emma Kerfoot was by the bedside in an instant.

'Dear Carry!' she said. 'Do you want anything?'

She shook her head slightly; she was excessively weak; but the look in

her eyes was one of calm intelligence; it was clear that the delirium

had left her.

'Do you know that your father is here?'

'Why?' she managed to say.

'Because you have been so ill! Don't you know? Don't you recollect?'

'Yes--I know, a little,' she said. 'Where is Jack Huysen?'

'He is here in the hotel too. Oh, how glad they will all be to hear

that you are quite yourself again. And I must go and tell them, as soon

as nurse comes; for, you know, you'll have a long pull before you,

Carry; and if you don't get quite well again not one of us will ever

forgive ourselves for bringing you to Lake George. And there's Jack

Huysen, poor fellow, he has just been distracted; and all the time you

were ill you never had a word for him--though he used to haunt the

passage outside just like a ghost--well, well, you'll have to make it up

to him.'

At this moment the nurse appeared, and Miss Kerfoot was free to depart

on her joyful errand. Of course, she was for summoning everybody--and

Jack Huysen among the rest; but the doctors interposed; their patient

must be kept perfectly quiet; in the meantime no one but her father was

to have access to her room.

Now Mr. Hodson, when he was seated there by her side, and chatting

lightly and carelessly about a variety of indifferent matters (she

herself being forbidden to speak), considered that he could not do

better than relieve her mind of any anxiety she may have entertained on

Ronald's account. All through her delirium that was the one thing that

seemed to trouble her; and, lest she should revert to it, he thought he

might as well give her ample assurance that Ronald should be looked

after. However, to his great surprise, he found that she was quite

ignorant of her having made these appeals on behalf of Ronald. She did

not seem to know that she had been in dire distress about him,

reproaching herself for their treatment of him, and begging her father

to make such atonement as was yet possible. No; when she was allowed to

speak a little, she said quite calmly that it was a pity they had not

been able to go to Scotland that autumn; that they should have written

to Ronald to see how he was getting on; and that her father, if he

visited the old country, in the coming spring, ought surely to seek him

out, and remind him that he had some friends in America who would be

glad to hear of his welfare. But Mr. Hodson said to himself that he

would do a little more than that. He was not going to recall the

promise that he had made to his daughter when, as he thought, she lay

near to the very gates of death. What had put that pathetic solicitude

into her mind he knew not; but she had made her appeal, with dumb

fever-stricken eyes and trembling voice; and he had answered her and

pledged his word. Ronald should be none the loser that this sick girl

had thought of him when that she seemed to be vanishing away from them

for ever; surely in that direction, as well as any other, the father

might fitly give his thank-offering--for the restitution to life of the

sole daughter of his house?

*CHAPTER XIII.*

*IN ABSENCE.*

Loch Naver lay calm and still under the slow awakening of the dawn. All

along the eastern horizon the low-lying hills were of a velvet-textured

olive-green--a mysterious shadow-land where no detail was visible; but

overhead the skies were turning to a clear and luminous gray; the

roseate tinge was leaving the upper slopes of Ben Loyal and Ben Clebrig;

and the glassy surface of the lake was gradually whitening as the

red-golden light changed to silver and broadened up and through the wide

sleeping world. An intense silence lay over the little hamlet among the

trees; not even a dog was stirring; but a tiny column of pale blue smoke

issuing from one of the chimneys told that some one was awake

within--probably the yellow-haired Nelly, whose duties began at an early

hour.

And what was Meenie--or Rose Meenie, or Love Meenie, as she might be

called now, after having all those things written about her--what was

she doing awake and up at such a time? At all events, her morning

greeting was there confronting her. She had brought it and put it on

the little dressing-table; and as she brushed out her beautiful abundant

brown tresses, her eyes went back again and again to the pencilled

lines, and she seemed not ill-pleased. For this was what she read:

_The hinds are feeding upon the hill,_

_And the hares on the fallow lea;_

_Awake, awake, Love Meenie!_

_Birds are singing in every tree;_

_And roses you'll find on your window-sill_

_To scent the morning air;_

_Awake, awake, Love Meenie,_

_For the world is shining fair!_

_O who is the mistress of bird and flower?_

_Ben Clebrig knows, I ween!_

_Awake, awake, Love Meenie,_

_To show them their mistress and queen!_

And it could hardly be expected that she should bring any very keen

critical scrutiny to bear on these careless verses of Ronald's (of which

she had now obtained a goodly number, by dint of wheedling and entreaty,

and even downright insistence), seeing that nearly all of them were

written in her praise and honour; but even apart from that she had

convinced herself that they were very fine indeed; and that one or two

of them were really pathetic; and she was not without the hope that,

when the serious affairs of life had been attended to, and a little

leisure and contemplation become possible, Ronald might turn to his

poetical labours again and win some little bit of a name for himself

amongst a few sympathetic souls here and there. That he could do so, if

he chose, she was sure enough. It was all very well for him to make

light of these scraps and fragments; and to threaten to destroy them if

she revealed the fact of their existence to anybody; but she knew their

worth, if he did not; and when, in this or that magazine or review, she

saw a piece of poetry mentioned with praise, her first impulse was to

quickly read it in order to ask herself whether Ronald--given time and

opportunity--could not have done as well. Moreover, the answer to that

question was invariably the same; and it did not leave her unhappy. It

is true (for she would be entirely dispassionate) he had not written

anything quite so fine as 'Christabel'--as yet; but the years were

before him; she had confidence; the world should see--and give him a

fitting welcome all in good time.

When, on this clear morning, she was fully equipped for her walk, she

stole silently down the stair, and made her way out into the now

awakening day. The little hamlet was showing signs of life. A

stable-lad was trying to get hold of a horse that had strayed into the

meadow; a collie was barking its excitement over this performance; the

pretty Nelly appeared carrying an armful of clothes to be hung out to

dry. And then, as Meenie passed the inn, she was joined by Harry the

terrier, who, after the first grovelling demonstrations of joy, seemed

to take it for granted that he was to be allowed to accompany her. And

she was nothing loth. The fact was, she was setting out in quest of

that distant eyrie of Ronald's of which he had often told her; and she

doubted very much whether she would be able to find it; and she

considered that perhaps the little terrier might help her. Would he not

naturally make for his master's accustomed resting-place, when they were

sufficiently high up on the far Clebrig slopes?

So they went away along the road together; and she was talking to her

companion; and telling him a good deal more about Glasgow, and about his

master, than probably he could understand. Considering, indeed, that

this young lady had just been sent home in deep disgrace, she seemed in

excellent spirits. She had borne the parting admonitions and

upbraidings of her sister Agatha with a most astonishing indifference;

she had received her mother's reproaches with a placid equanimity that

the little woman could not understand at all (only that Meenie's face

once or twice grew fixed and proud when there was some scornful

reference to Ronald); and she had forthwith set about nursing her

father--who had caught a severe chill and was in bed--with an amiable

assiduity, just as if nothing had happened. As regards her father, he

either did not know, or had refused to know, about Meenie's lamentable

conduct. On this one point he was hopelessly perverse; he never would

listen to anything said against this daughter of his; Meenie was always

in the right--no matter what it was. And so, notwithstanding that she

had been sent home as one in disgrace, and had been received as one in

disgrace, she installed herself as her father's nurse with an amazing

self-content; and she brought him his beef-tea and port-wine at the

stated intervals (for the good Doctor did not seem to have as much faith

in drugs as might have been anticipated); and she kept the peat-fire

piled up and blazing; and she methodically read to him the _Inverness

Courier_, the _Glasgow Weekly Citizen_, and the _Edinburgh Scotsman_;

and when these were done she would get out a volume of old ballads, or

perhaps 'The Eve of St. Agnes,' or 'Esmond,' or 'As You Like It,' or the

'Winter's Tale.' It did not matter much to him what she read; he liked

to hear the sound of Meenie's voice--in this hushed, half-slumberous,

warm little room, while the chill north winds howled without, chasing

each other across the driven loch, and sighing and sobbing away along

the lonely Strath-Terry.

But on this fair morning there was not a breath stirring; and the

curving bays and promontories and birch-woods, and the far hills beyond,

were all reflected in the magic mirror of the lake, as she sped along

the highway, making for the Clebrig slopes. And soon she was mounting

these--with the light step of one trained to the heather; and ever as

she got higher and higher the vast panorama around her grew wider and

more wide, until she could see hills and lochs and wooded islands that

never were visible from Inver-Mudal. In the perfect silence, the sudden

whirr of a startled grouse made her heart jump. A hare--that looked

remarkably like a cat, for there was as much white as bluish-brown about

it--got up almost at her feet and sped swiftly away over heath and rock

until it disappeared in one of the numerous peat-hags. There was a

solitary eagle slowly circling in the blue; but at so great a height

that it was but a speck. At one moment she thought she had caught sight

of the antlers of a stag; and for a second she stopped short, rather

frightened; but presently she had convinced herself that these were but

two bits of withered birch, appearing over the edge of a rock far above

her. It was a little chillier here; but the brisk exercise kept her

warm. And still she toiled on and on; until she knew, or guessed, that

she was high enough; and now the question was to discover the

whereabouts of the clump of rocks under shelter of which Ronald was

accustomed to sit, when he had been up here alone, dreaming day-dreams,

and scribbling the foolish rhymes that had won to her favour, whatever

he might think of them.

At first this seemed a hopeless task; for the whole place was a

wilderness of moss and heather and peat-hags, with scarcely a

distinctive feature anywhere. But she wandered about, watching the

little terrier covertly; and at last she saw him put his nose in an

inquiring way into a hole underneath some tumbled boulders. He turned

and looked at her; she followed. And now there could be no doubt that

this was Ronald's halting-place and pulpit of meditation; for she

forthwith discovered the hidden case at the back of the little

cave--though the key of that now belonged to his successor. And so, in

much content, she sate herself down on the heather; with all the wide,

sunlit, still world mapped out before her--the silver thread of Mudal

Water visible here and there among the moors, and Loch Meadie with its

islands, and Ben Hope and Ben Loyal, and Bonnie Strath-Naver, and the

far Kyle of Tongue close to the northern Sea.

Now, what had Love Meenie climbed all this height for? what but to read

herself back into the time when Ronald used to come here alone; and to

think of what he had been thinking; and to picture herself as still an

unconscious maiden wandering about that distant little hamlet that

seemed but two or three dots down there among the trees. This, or

something like it, has always been a favourite pastime with lovers; but

Meenie had an additional source of interest in the possession of a

packet of those idle rhymes, and these were a kind of key to bygone

moods and days. And so it was here--in this strange stillness--that

Ronald had written these verses about her; and perhaps caught a glimpse

of her, with his telescope, as she came out from the cottage to

intercept the mail; when little indeed was she dreaming that he had any

such fancies in his head. And now as she turned over page after page,

sometimes she laughed a little, when she came to something that seemed a

trifle audacious--and she scarcely wondered that he had been afraid of

her seeing such bold declarations: and then again a kind of compunction

filled her heart; and she wished that Ronald had not praised her so; for

what had she done to deserve it; and how would her coming life be made

to correspond with these all too generous and exalted estimates of her

character? Of course she liked well enough to come upon praises of her

abundant brown hair, and her Highland eyes, and the rose-leaf tint of

her cheeks, and the lightness of her step; for she was aware of these

things as well as he; and glad enough that she possessed them, for had

they not commended her to him? But as for these other wonderful graces

of mind and disposition with which he had adorned her? She was sadly

afraid that he would find her stupid, ill-instructed, unread, fractious,

unreasonable, incapable of understanding him. Look, for example, how he

could imbue these hills and moors and vales with a kind of magic, so

that they seemed to become his personal friends. To her they were all

dead things (except Mudal Water, at times, on the summer evenings), but

to him they seemed instinct with life. They spoke to him; and he to

them; he understood them; they were his companions and friends; who but

himself could tell of what this very hill of Clebrig was thinking?--

_Ben Clebrig's a blaze of splendour_

_In the first red flush of the morn,_

_And his gaze is fixed on the eastward_

_To greet the day new-born;_

_And he listens a-still for the bellow_

_Of the antlered stag afar,_

_And he laughs at the royal challenge,_

_The hoarse, harsh challenge of war._

_But Ben Clebrig is gentle and placid_

_When the sun sinks into the west,_

_And a mild and a mellow radiance_

_Shines on his giant crest;_

_For he's looking down upon Meenie_

_As she wanders along the road,_

_And the mountain bestows his blessing_

_On the fairest child of God._

There again: what could he see in her (she asked herself) that he should

write of her so? He had declared to her that the magic with which all

this neighbourhood was imbued was due to her presence there; but how

could she, knowing herself as she did, believe that? And how to show

her gratitude to him; and her faith in him; and her confidence as to the

future? Well, she could but give to him her life and the love that was

the life of her life--if these were worth the taking.

But there was one among these many pieces that she had pondered over

which she returned to again and again, and with a kind of pride; and

that not because it sounded her praises, but because it assured her

hopes. As for Ronald's material success in life, she was troubled with

little doubt about that. It might be a long time before he could come

to claim his wife; but she was content to wait; in that direction she

had no fears whatever. But there was something beyond that. She looked

forward to the day when even the Stuarts of Glengask and Orosay should

know what manner of man this was whom she had chosen for her husband.

Her mother had called him an uneducated peasant; but she paid no heed to

the taunt; rather she was thinking of the time when Ronald--other things

being settled--might perhaps go to Edinburgh, and get to know some one

holding the position there that Jeffrey used to hold (her reading was a

little old-fashioned) who would introduce him to the world of letters

and open the way to fame. She knew nothing of Carry Hodson's luckless

attempt in this direction; she knew, on the contrary, that Ronald was

strongly averse from having any of these scraps printed; but she said to

herself that the fitting time would come. And if these unpolished

verses are found to belie her confident and proud prognostications as to

the future, let it be remembered that she was hardly nineteen, that she

was exceedingly warm-hearted, that she was a young wife, and day and

night with little to think about but the perfections of her lover, and

his kindness to her, and his praise of her, and the honour in which he

held her. However, this piece was not about Meenie at all--he had

called it

_BY ISLAY'S SHORES._

_By Islay's shores she sate and sang:_

_'O winds, come blowing o'er the sea,_

_And bring me back my love again_

_That went to fight in Germanie!'_

_And all the livelong day she sang,_

_And nursed the bairn upon her knee:_

_'Balou, balou, my bonnie bairn,_

_Thy father's far in Germanie,_

_But ere the summer days are gane,_

_And winter blackens bush and tree,_

_Thy father will we welcome hame_

_Frae the red wars in Germanie.'_

_O dark the night fell, dark and mirk;_

_A wraith stood by her icily:_

_'Dear wife, I'll never more win hame,_

_For I am slain in Germanie._

_On Minden's field I'm lying stark,_

_And Heaven is now my far countrie,_

_Farewell, dear wife, farewell, farewell,_

_I'll ne'er win hame frae Germanie.'_

_And all the year she came and went,_

_And wandered wild frae sea to sea;_

_'O neighbours, is he ne'er come back,_

_My love that went to Germanie?'_

_Port Ellen saw her many a time;_

_Round by Port Askaig wandered she:_

_'Where is the ship that's sailing in_

_With my dear love frae Germanie?'_

_But when the darkened winter fell:_

_'It's cold for baith my bairn and me;_

_Let me lie down and rest awhile:_

_My love's away frae Germanie._

_O far away and away he dwells;_

_High Heaven is now his fair countrie;_

_And there he stands--with arms outstretched--_

_To welcome hame my bairn and me!'_

And if Meenie's eyes were filled with tears when she had re-read the

familiar lines, her heart was proud enough; and all her kinsmen of

Glengask and Orosay had no terrors for her; and her mother's taunts no

sting. Of course, all this that she hoped for was far away in the

future; but even as regarded the immediate years before her she refused

to be harassed by any doubt. Perhaps she would not have asserted in set

terms that a knack of stringing verses together proved that the writer

had also the capacity and knowledge and judgment necessary to drain and

fence and plant and stock a Highland estate; abstract questions of the

kind had little interest for her; what she did know--what formed the

first article of her creed, and the last, and the intervening

thirty-seven--was that Ronald could do anything he put his mind to. And

this was a highly useful and comfortable belief, considering all her

circumstances.

And so she sped away down the mountain-side again--glad to have

discovered Ronald's retreat; and so light and swift was her step that

when she at length reached the inn she found herself just ahead of the

mail coming in from the south. Of course she waited for letters; and

when Mrs. Murray had opened the bags, it was found there were three for

the Doctor's cottage. The first was from Ronald; that Meenie whipped

into her pocket. The second was for Mrs. Douglas, and clearly in

Agatha's handwriting. The third, addressed to Meenie, had an American

stamp on it; and this was the one that she opened and read as she

quietly walked homeward.

It was a long letter; and it was from Miss Carry Hodson; who first of

all described the accident that had befallen her, and her subsequent

illness; and plainly intimated that no such thing would have happened

had her Highland friends been in charge of the boat. Then she went on

to say that her father had just sailed for Europe; that he had business

to transact in Scotland; that he wished to see Ronald; and would Miss

Douglas be so very kind as to ask the innkeeper, or the post-master at

Lairg, or any one who knew Ronald's address in Glasgow, to drop a

post-card to her father, addressed to the Langham Hotel, London, with

the information. Moreover, her father had intimated his intention of

taking the Loch Naver salmon-fishing for the next season, if it was not

as yet let; and in that case the writer would be overjoyed to find

herself once more among her Inver-Mudal friends. Finally, and as a kind

of reminder and keepsake, she had sent by her father a carriage-rug made

mostly of chipmunk skins; and she would ask Miss Douglas's acceptance of

it; and hoped that it would keep her knees snug and warm and comfortable

when the winds were blowing too sharply along Strath-Terry.

Of course, all this was wonderful news to come to such a quiet and

remote corner of the world; but there was other news as well; and that

by an odd coincidence. Some little time after Mrs. Douglas had received

the letter from Agatha, she came to Meenie.

'Williamina,' said she, 'Agatha writes to me about Mr. Frank Lauder.'

'Yes?' said Meenie, rather coldly.

'He intends renting the salmon-fishing on the loch for the next season;

and he will be alone at the inn. Agatha hopes that we shall be

particularly civil to him; and I hope--I say, I hope--that every one in

this house will be. It is of the greatest importance, considering how

he stands with regard to Mr. Gemmill. I hope he will be received in

this house with every attention and kindness.'

And then the pompous little dame left. It was almost a challenge she

had thrown down; and Meenie was at first a little bewildered. What

then?--would this young man, for the six weeks or two months of his

stay, be their constant visitor? He would sit in the little parlour,

evening after evening; and how could she keep him from talking to her,

and how could she keep him from looking at her? And Ronald--her

husband--would be far away; and alone, perhaps; and not allowed a word

with her; whereas she would have to be civil and polite to this young

man; and even if she held her eyes downcast, how could she help his

regarding her face?

And then she suddenly bethought her of Miss Hodson's letter. What?--was

Mr. Hodson after the fishing too? And ought not the last tenant to have

the refusal? And should not the Duke's agent know? And why should she

not write him a note--just in case no inquiry had been made? She had

not much time to think about the matter; but she guessed quickly enough

that, if an American millionaire and the son of a Glasgow merchant are

after the same thing, and that thing purchasable, the American is likely

to get it. And why should Ronald's wife be stared at and talked to by

this young man--however harmless and amiable his intentions?

So she went swiftly to her own room and wrote as follows:--

'DEAR MR. CRAWFORD--I have just heard from Miss Hodson, whose father was

here last spring, that he is on his way to Europe; and that he hopes to

have the fishing again this year. I think I ought to let you know, just

in case you should have any other application for the loch. I am sure

Miss Hodson will be much disappointed if he does not get it. Yours

sincerely,

'MEENIE S. DOUGLAS.'

'There,' said she, and there was a little smile of triumph about her

mouth, 'if that doesn't put a spoke in the wheel of Mr. Frank Lauder,

poor fellow, I don't know what will.'

'Spiteful little cat,' her sister Agatha would have called her, had she

known; but women's judgments of women are not as men's.

*CHAPTER XIV.*

*WANDERINGS IN THE WEST.*

On a singularly clear and brilliant morning in February a large and

heavy screw-steamer slowly crept out of the land-locked little harbour

of Portree, and steadily made away for the north. For her the squally

Ben Inivaig at the mouth of the channel had no terrors; indeed, what

could any vessel fear on such a morning as this? When they got well out

into Raasay Sound, it seemed as if the whole world had been changed into

a pantomime-scene. The sky was calm and cloudless; the sea was as glass

and of the most dazzling blue; and those masses of white that appeared

on that perfect mirror were the reflections of the snow-powdered

islands--Raasay, and Fladda, and South Rona--that gleamed and shone and

sparkled there in the sun. Not often are the wide waters of the Minch

so fair and calm in mid-winter; the more usual thing is northerly gales,

with black seas thundering by into Loch Staffin and Kilmaluag Bay, or

breaking into sheets and spouts of foam along the headlands of Aird

Point and Ru Hunish. This was as a holiday trip, but for the sharp

cold. The islands were white as a solan's wing--save along the shores;

the sea was of a sapphire blue; and when they got up by Rona light

behold the distant snow-crowned hills of Ross and Cromarty rose faint

and spectral and wonderful into the pale and summer-like sky. The men

sung '_Fhir a Bhata_' as they scoured the brass and scrubbed the decks;

the passengers marched up and down, clapping their hands to keep them

warm; and ever as the heavy steamer forged on its way, the world of blue

sea and sky and snow-white hills opened out before them, until some

declared at last that in the far north they could make out the Shiant

Isles.

Now under shelter of the companion-way leading down into the saloon

three men were standing, and two of them were engaged in an animated

conversation. The third, who was Mr. Hodson, merely looked on and

listened, a little amused, apparently. One of the others--a tall,

heavy-bearded, north-Highland-looking man--was Mr. Carmichael, a famous

estate-agent in London, who had run two or three commissions together as

an excuse for this midwinter trip. The third member of the group was

Ronald, who was hammering away in his usual dogmatic fashion.

'Pedigree? The pride of having ancestors?' he was saying. 'Why,

there's not a man alive whose ancestry does not stretch as far back as

any other man's ancestry. Take it any way ye like: if Adam was our

grandfather, then we're all his grandchildren; or if we are descended

from a jellyfish or a monkey, the line is of the same length for all of

us--for dukes, and kings, and herd-laddies. The only difference is

this, that some know the names of their forefathers, and some don't; and

the presumption is that the man whose people have left no story behind

them is come of a more moral, useful, sober, hard-working race than the

man whose forbears were famous cut-throats in the middle ages, or

dishonest lawyers, or king's favourites. It's plain John Smith that has

made up the wealth of this country; and that has built her ships for

her, and defended her, and put her where she is; and John Smith had his

ancestors at Cressy and Agincourt as well as the rest--ay, and they had

the bulk of the fighting to do, I'll be bound; but I think none the

worse of him because he cannot tell you their names or plaster his walls

with coats of arms. However, it's idle talking about a matter of

sentiment, and that's the fact; and so, if you'll excuse me, I'll just

go down into the cabin, and write a couple o' letters.'

A minute or so after he had disappeared, Mr. Hodson (who looked

miserably cold, to tell the truth, though he was wrapped from head to

heel in voluminous furs) motioned his companion to come a few yards

aside, so that they could talk without fear of being overheard.

'Now,' said he, in his slow and distinct way, 'now we are alone, I want

you to tell me what you think of that young man.'

'I don't like his politics,' was the prompt and blunt answer.

'No more do I,' said Mr. Hodson coolly. 'But for another reason. You

call him a Radical, I call him a Tory. But no matter--I don't mean about

politics. Politics?--who but a fool bothers his head about

politics--unless he can make money out of them? No, I mean something

more practical than that. Here have you and he been together these

three days, talking about the one subject nearly all the time--I mean

the management of these Highland estates, and the nature of the ground,

and what should be done, and all that. Well, now, you are a man of

great experience; and I want you to tell me what you think of this young

fellow. I want you to tell me honestly; and it will be in strict

confidence, I assure you. Now, has he got a good solid grip of the

thing? Does he know? Does he catch on? Is he safe? Is he to be

trusted?----'

'Oh, there, there, there!' said the big estate-agent, interrupting

through mere good-nature. 'That's quite another thing--quite another

thing. I've not a word to say against him there--no, quite the other

way--a shrewd-headed, capable fellow he is, with a groundwork of

practical knowledge that no man ever yet got out of books. As

sharp-eyed a fellow as I have come across for many a day--didn't you see

how he guessed at the weak points of that Mull place before ever he set

foot ashore? Quick at figures, too--oh yes, yes, a capable fellow I

call him; he has been posting himself up, I can see; but it's where his

practical knowledge comes in that he's of value. When it's a question

of vineries, or something like that, then he goes by the book--that's

useless.'

Mr. Hodson listened in silence; and his manner showed nothing.

'I have been thinking he would be a valuable man for me,' the agent said

presently.

'In your office?' said Mr. Hodson, raising his eyes.

'Yes. And for this reason. You see, if he would only keep away from

those d--d politics of his, he is a very good-natured fellow, and he has

got an off-hand way with him that makes shepherds, and keepers, and

people of that kind friendly; the result is that he gets all the

information that he wants--and that isn't always an easy thing to get.

Now if I had a man like that in my office, whom I could send with a

client thinking of purchasing an estate--to advise him--to get at the

truth--and to be an intelligent and agreeable travelling-companion at

the same time--that would be a useful thing.'

'Say, now,' continued Mr. Hodson (who was attending mostly to his own

meditations), 'do you think, from what you've seen of this young man,

that he has the knowledge and business-capacity to be overseer--factor,

you call it, don't you?--of an estate--not a large estate, but perhaps

about the size of the one we saw yesterday or this one we are going to

now? Would he go the right way about it? Would he understand what had

to be done--I mean, in improving the land, and getting the most out of

it----'

Mr. Carmichael laughed.

'It's not a fair question,' said he. 'Your friend Strang and I are too

much of one opinion--ay, on every point we're agreed--for many's the

long talk we've had over the matter.'

'I know--I know,' Mr. Hodson said. 'Though I was only half-listening;

for when you got to feu-duties and public burdens and things of that

kind I lost my reckoning. But you say that you and Strang are agreed as

to the proper way of managing a Highland estate: very well: assuming

your theories to be correct, is he capable of carrying them out?'

'I think so--I should say undoubtedly--I don't think I would myself

hesitate about trusting him with such a place--that is, when I had made

sufficient inquiries about his character, and got some money guarantee

about his stewardship. But then, you see, Mr. Hodson, I'm afraid, if you

were to let Strang go his own way in working up an estate, so as to get

the most marketable value into it, you and he would have different

opinions at the outset. I mean with such an estate as you would find

over there,' he added, indicating with his finger the long stretch of

wild and mountainous country they were approaching. 'On rough and hilly

land like that, in nine cases out of ten, you may depend on it, it's

foresting that pays.'

'But that's settled,' Mr. Hodson retorted rather sharply. 'I have

already told you, and Strang too, that if I buy a place up here I will

not have a stag or a hind from end to end of it.'

'Faith, they're things easy to get rid of,' the other said

good-naturedly. 'They'll not elbow you into the ditch if you meet them

on the road.'

'No; I have heard too much. Why, you yourself said that the very name

of American stank in the nostrils of the Highlanders.'

'Can you wonder?' said Mr. Carmichael quietly: they had been talking the

night before of certain notorious doings, on the part of an American

lessee, which were provoking much newspaper comment at the time.

'Well, what I say is this--if I buy a place in the Highlands--and no one

can compel me to buy it--it is merely a fancy I have had for two or

three years back, and I can give it up if I choose--but what I say is,

if I do buy a place in the Highlands, I will hold it on such conditions

that I shall be able to bring my family to live on it, and that I shall

be able to leave it to my boy without shame. I will not associate

myself with a system that has wrought such cruelty and tyranny. No; I

will not allow a single acre to be forested.'

'There's such a quantity of the land good for nothing but deer,' Mr.

Carmichael said, almost plaintively. 'If you only saw it!--you're going

now by what the newspaper writers say--people who never were near a

deer-forest in their lives.'

'Good for nothing but deer? But what about the black cattle that

Ronald--that Strang--is always talking about?' was the retort--and Mr.

Hodson showed a very unusual vehemence, or, at least, impatience.

'Well, I don't care. That has got nothing to do with me. But it has got

to do with my factor, or overseer, or whatever he is. And between him

and me this is how it will lie: "If you can't work my estate, big or

small as it may be, without putting the main part of it under deer, and

beginning to filch grazings here and there, and driving the crofters

down to the sea-shore, and preventing a harmless traveller from having a

Sunday walk over the hills, then out you go. You may be fit for some

other place: not for mine." Then he went on in a milder strain. 'And

Strang knows that very well. No doubt, if I were to put him in a

position of trust like that, he might be ambitious to give a good

account of his stewardship; I think, very likely he would be, for he's a

young man; but if I buy a place in the Highlands, it will have to be

managed as I wish it to be managed. When I said that I wanted the most

made out of the land, I did not mean the most money. No. I should be

glad to have four per cent for my investment; if I can't have that, I

should be content with three; but it is not as a commercial speculation

that I shall go into the affair, if I go into it at all. My wants are

simple enough. As I tell you, I admire the beautiful, wild country; I

like the people--what little I have seen of them; and if I can get a

picturesque bit of territory somewhere along this western coast, I

should like to give my family a kind of foothold in Europe, and I dare

say my boy might be glad to spend his autumns here, and have a turn at

the grouse. But for the most part of the time the place would be under

control of the factor; and I want a factor who will work the estate

under certain specified conditions. First, no foresting. Then I would

have the crofts revalued--as fairly as might be; no crofter to be liable

to removal who paid his rent. The sheep-farms would go by their market

value, though I would not willingly disturb any tenant; however, in that

case, I should be inclined to try Strang's plan of having those black

cattle on my own account. I would have the cottars taken away from the

crofts (allowing for the rent paid to the crofter, for that would be but

fair, when the value of the crofts was settled), and I would build for

them a model village, which you might look upon as a philanthropic fad

of my own, to be paid for separately. No gratuitous grazing anywhere to

crofter or cottar; that is but the parent of subsequent squabbles. Then

I would have all the draining and planting and improving of the estate

done by the local hands, so far as that was practicable. And then I

should want four per cent return on the purchase-money; and I should not

be much disappointed with three; and perhaps (though I would not admit

this to anybody) if I saw the little community thriving and

satisfied--and reckoning also the honour and glory of my being a king on

my own small domain--I might even be content with two per cent. Now,

Mr. Carmichael, is this practicable? And is this young fellow the man

to undertake it? I would make it worth his while. I should not like to

say anything about payment by results or percentage on profits; that

might tempt him to screw it out of the poorer people when he was left

master--though he does not talk like that kind of a fellow. I wrote to

Lord Ailine about him; and got the best of characters. I went and saw

the old man who is coaching him for that forestry examination; he is

quite confident about the result--not that I care much about that

myself. What do you say now? You ought to be able to judge.'

Mr. Carmichael hesitated.

'If you got the estate at a fair price,' he said at length, 'it might be

practicable, though these improvement schemes suck in money as a sponge

sucks in water. And as for this young fellow--well, I should think he

would be just the man for the place--active, energetic, shrewd-headed,

and a pretty good hand at managing folk, as I should guess. But, you

know, before giving any one an important post like that--and especially

with your going back to America for the best part of every year--I think

you ought to have some sort of money guarantee as a kind of safeguard.

It's usual. God forbid I should suggest anything against the lad--he's

as honest looking as my own two boys, and I can say no more than

that--still, business is business. A couple of sureties, now, of L500

apiece, might be sufficient.'

'It's usual?' repeated Mr. Hodson absently. 'Yes, I suppose it is.

Pretty hard on a young fellow, though, if he can't find the sureties. A

thousand pounds is a big figure for one in his position. He has told me

about his father and his brother: they're not in it, anyhow--both of

them with hardly a sixpence to spare. However, it's no use talking

about it until we see whether this place here is satisfactory; and even

then don't say a word about it to him; for if some such post were to be

offered to him--and if the securities were all right and so forth--it

has got to be given to him as a little present from an American young

lady, if you can call it a present when you merely propose to pay a man

a fair day's wage for a fair day's work. And I am less hopeful now; the

three places we have looked at were clearly out of the question; and my

Highland mansion may prove to be a castle in Spain after all.'

Late that night they reached their destination; and early next morning

at the door of the hotel--which looked strangely deserted amid the

wintry landscape--a waggonette was waiting for them, and also the agent

for the estate they were going to inspect. They started almost

directly; and a long and desperately cold drive it proved to be; Mr.

Hodson, for one, was glad enough when they dismounted at the keeper's

cottage where their tramp over the ground was to begin--he did not care

how rough the country might be, so long as he could keep moving briskly.

Now it had been very clear during these past few days that Ronald had

not the slightest suspicion that Mr. Hodson, in contemplating the

purchase of a Highland estate (which was an old project of his), had

also in his eye some scheme for Ronald's own advancement. All the way

through he had been endeavouring to spy out the nakedness of the land,

and to demonstrate its shortcomings. He considered that was his

business. Mr. Hodson had engaged him--at what he considered the

munificent terms of a guinea a day and all expenses paid--to come and

give his advice; and he deemed it his duty to find out everything,

especially whatever was detrimental, about such places as they visited,

so that there should be no swindling bargain. And so on this Ross-shire

estate of Balnavrain, he was proving himself a hard critic. This was

hopelessly bleak; that was worthless bog-land;--why was there no fencing

along those cliffs?--where were the roads for the peats?--who had had

control over the burning of the heather?--wasn't it strange that all

along these tops they had not put up more than a couple of coveys of

grouse, a hare or two, and a single ptarmigan? But all at once, when

they had toiled across this unpromising and hilly wilderness, they came

upon a scene of the most startling beauty--for now they were looking

down and out on the western sea, that was a motionless mirror of blue

and white; and near them was a wall of picturesquely wooded cliffs; and

below that again, and sloping to the shore, a series of natural plateaus

and carefully planted enclosures; while stretching away inland was a

fertile valley, with smart farmhouses, and snug clumps of trees, and a

meandering river that had salmon obviously written on every square foot

of its partially frozen surface.

'What a situation for a house!' was Ronald's involuntary exclamation--as

he looked down on the sheltered semicircle below him, guarded on the

east and north by the cliffs, and facing the shining west.

'I thought ye would say that,' the agent said, with a quiet smile.

'It's many's the time I've heard Sir James say he would give L20,000 if

he could bring the Castle there; and he was aye minded to build

there--ay, even to the day of his death, poor man; but then the Colonel,

when the place came to him, said no; he would rather sell Balnavrain;

and maist likely the purchaser would be for building a house to his ain

mind.'

'And a most sensible notion too,' Mr. Hodson said. 'But look here, my

friend: you've brought us up to a kind of Pisgah; I would rather go down

into that land of Gilead, and see what the farmhouses are like.'

'Ay, but I brought ye here because it's about the best place for giving

ye an idea of the marches,' said the man imperturbably, for he knew his

own business better than the stranger. 'Do ye see the burn away over

there beyond the farmhouse?'

'Yes, yes.'

'Well, that's the Balnavrain march right up to the top; and then the

Duchess runs all along the sky-line yonder--to the black scaur.'

'You don't say!' observed Mr. Hodson. 'I never heard of a Duchess doing

anything so extraordinary.'

'But we march with the Duchess,' said the other, a little bewildered.

'That's a little more decorous, anyway. Well now, I suppose we can make

all that out on the Ordnance Survey map when we get back to the hotel.

I'm for getting down into the valley--to have a look around; I take it

that if I lived here I shouldn't spend all the time on a mountain-top.'

Well, the long and the short of it was that, after having had two or

three hours of laborious and diligent tramping and inspection and

questioning and explanation, and after having been entertained with a

comfortable meal of oat-cake and hot broth and boiled beef at a

hospitable farmhouse, they set out again on their cold drive back to the

hotel, where a long business conversation went on all the evening,

during dinner and after dinner. It was very curious how each of these

three brought this or that objection to the place--as if bound to do so;

and how the fascination of the mere site of it had so clearly captivated

them none the less. Of course, nothing conclusive was said or done that

night; but, despite these deprecatory pleas, there was a kind of tacit

and general admission that Balnavrain, with proper supervision and

attention to the possibilities offered by its different altitudes, might

be made into a very admirable little estate, with a dwelling-house on it

second in point of situation to none on the whole western sea-board of

the Highlands.

'Ronald,' said Mr. Hodson that evening, when Mr. Carmichael had gone off

to bed (he was making for the south early in the morning), 'we have had

some hard days' work; why should we let Loch Naver lie idle? I suppose

we could drive from here somehow? Let us start off to-morrow; and we'll

have a week's salmon-fishing.'

'To Inver-Mudal?' he said--and he turned quite pale.

'Yes, yes, why not?' Mr. Hodson answered. But he had noticed that

strange look that had come across the younger man's face; and he

attributed it to a wrong cause. 'Oh, it will not take up so much of your

time,' he continued. 'Mr. Weems declares you must have your certificate

as a matter of course. And as for expenses--the present arrangement

must go on, naturally, until you get back to Glasgow. What is a week,

man? Indeed, I will take no denial.'

And Ronald could not answer. To Inver-Mudal?--to meet the girl whom he

dared not acknowledge to be his wife?--and with his future as hopelessly

uncertain as ever. Once or twice he was almost driven to make a

confession to this stranger, who seemed so frankly interested in him and

his affairs; but no; he could not do that; and he went to bed wondering

with what strange look in her eyes Meenie would find him in

Inver-Mudal--if he found it impossible to resist the temptation of being

once more within sight of her, and within hearing of the sound of her

voice.

*CHAPTER XV.*

*A PLEDGE REDEEMED.*

Mr. Hodson could by no means get to understand the half-expressed

reluctance, the trepidation almost, with which Ronald seemed to regard

this visit to Inver-Mudal. It was not a matter of time; for his studies

for the examination were practically over. It was not a matter of

expense; for he was being paid a guinea a day. It was not debt; on that

point Mr. Hodson had satisfied himself by a few plain questions; and he

knew to a sovereign what sum Ronald had still in the bank. Nor could he

believe, after the quite unusual terms in which Lord Ailine had written

about the young man's conduct and character, that Ronald was likely to

have done anything to cause him to fear a meeting with his former

friends. And so, having some little experience of the world, he guessed

that there was probably a girl in the case; and discreetly held his

peace.

But little indeed was he prepared for the revelation that was soon to be

made. On the afternoon of one of these cold February days they were

driving northward along Strath-Terry. A sprinkling of snow had fallen

in the morning; the horses' hoofs and the wheels of the waggonette made

scarcely any sound in this prevailing silence. They had come in sight of

Loch Naver; and the long sheet of water looked quite black amid the

white undulations of the woods and the moorland and the low-lying hills.

Now at this point the road leading down to the village makes a sudden

turn; and they were just cutting round the corner when Ronald, who had

been anxiously looking forward, caught sight of that that most he longed

and that most he feared to see. It was Meenie herself--she was walking

by the side of the way, carrying some little parcel in her hand; and

they had come upon her quite unexpectedly, and noiselessly besides; and

what might she not betray in this moment of sudden alarm? He gripped

the driver's arm, thinking he might stop the horses; but it was now too

late for that. They were close to her; she heard the patter of horses'

hoofs; she looked up, startled; and the next moment--when she saw Ronald

there--she had uttered a quick, sharp cry, and had staggered back a step

or so, until in her fright she caught at the wire fence behind her. She

did not fall; but her face was as white as the snow around her; and when

he leapt from the waggonette, and seized her by both wrists, so as to

hold her there, she could only say, 'Ronald, Ronald,' and could seek for

no explanation of this strange arrival. But he held her tight and firm;

and with a wave of his hand he bade the driver drive on and leave them.

And Mr. Hodson lowered his eyes, thinking that he had seen enough; but

he formally raised his hat, all the same; and as he was being driven on

to the inn, he returned to his surmise that there was a girl in the

case--only who could have imagined that it was the Doctor's daughter?

Nor was there a single word said about this tell-tale meeting when

Ronald came along to the inn, some few minutes thereafter. He seemed a

little preoccupied, that was all. He rather avoided the stormy welcome

that greeted him everywhere; and appeared to be wholly bent on getting

the preparations pushed forward for the fishing of the next day. Of

course everything had to be arranged; for they had had no thought of

coming to Inver-Mudal when they sailed from Glasgow; there was not even

a boat on the loch, nor a single gillie engaged.

But later on that evening, when the short winter day had departed, and

the blackness of night lay over the land, Ronald stole away from the

inn, and went stealthily down through the fields till he found himself

by the side of the river. Of course, there was nothing visible; had he

not known every foot of the ground, he dared not have come this way; but

onward he went like a ghost through the dark until he finally gained the

bridge, and there he paused and listened. 'Meenie!' he said, in a kind

of whisper; but there was no reply. And so he groped his way to the

stone dyke by the side of the road, and sate down there, and waited.

This was not how he had looked forward to meeting Meenie again. Many a

time he had pictured that to himself--his getting back to Inver-Mudal

after the long separation--the secret summons--and Meenie coming

silently out from the little cottage to join him. But always the night

was a moonlight night; and the wide heavens calm and clear; and Loch

Naver rippling in silver under the dusky shadows of Ben Clebrig. Why,

he had already written out that summons; and he had sent it to Meenie;

and no doubt she had read it over to herself more than once; and

wondered when the happy time was to be. The night that he had looked

forward to was more like a night for a lovers' meeting: this was the

message he had sent her--

_O white's the moon upon the loch,_

_And black the bushes on the brae,_

_And red the light in your window-pane:_

_When will ye come away,_

_Meenie,_

_When will ye come away?_

_I'll wrap ye round and keep ye warm,_

_For mony a secret we've to tell,_

_And ne'er a sound will hinder us_

_Down in yon hidden dell,_

_Meenie,_

_Down in yon hidden dell._

_O see the moon is sailing on_

_Through fleecy clouds across the skies,_

_But fairer far the light that I know,_

_The love-light in your eyes,_

_Meenie,_

_The love-light in your eyes._

_O haste and haste; the night is sweet,_

_But sweeter far what I would hear;_

_And I have a secret to tell to you,_

_A whisper in your ear,_

_Meenie,_

_A whisper in your ear._

But here was a bitter cold winter night; and Meenie would have to come

through the snow; and dark as pitch it was--he would have to guess at

the love-light in her eyes, so cruelly dense was this blackness all

around.

Then his quick ear detected a faint sound in the distance--a hushed

footfall on the snow; and that came nearer and nearer; he went out to

the middle of the road.

'Is that you, Meenie?'

The answer was a whisper--

'Ronald!'

And like a ghost she came to him through the dark; but indeed this was

no ghost at all that he caught to him and that clung to him, for if her

cheeks were cold her breath was warm about his face, and her lips were

warm, and her ungloved hands that were round his neck were warm, and all

the furry wrappings that she wore could not quite conceal the joyful

beating of her heart.

'Oh, Ronald--Ronald--you nearly killed me with the fright--I thought

something dreadful had happened--that you had come back without any

warning--and now you say instead that it's good news--oh, let it be good

news, Ronald--let it be good news--if you only knew how I have been

thinking and thinking--and crying sometimes--through the long days and

the long nights--let it be good news that you have brought with you,

Ronald!'

'Well, lass' (but this was said after some little time; for he had other

things to say to her with which we have no concern here), 'it may be

good news; but it's pretty much guess-work; and maybe I'm building up

something on my own conceit, that will have a sudden fall, and serve me

right. And then even at the best I hardly see----'

'But, Ronald, you said it was good news!' And then she altered her

tone. 'Ah, but I don't care! I don't care at all when you are here.

It is only when you are away that my heart is like lead all the long

day; and at night I lie and think that everything is against us--and

such a long time to wait--and perhaps my people finding out--but what is

it, Ronald, you had to tell me?'

'Well, now, Meenie,' said he.

'But that is not my name--to you,' said she; for indeed she scarce knew

what she said, and was all trembling, and excited, and clinging to

him--there, in the dark, mid the wild waste of the snow.

'Love-Meenie and Rose-Meenie, all in one,' said he, 'listen, and I'll

tell you now what maybe lies before us. Maybe, it is, and that only; I

think this unexpected coming to see you may have put me off my head a

bit; but if it's all a mistake--well, we are no worse off than we were

before. And this is what it is now: do you remember my telling you that

Mr. Hodson had often been talking of buying an estate in the

Highlands?--well, he has just been looking at one--it's over there on

the Ross-shire coast--and it's that has brought us to the Highlands just

now, for he would have me come and look at it along with him. And what

would you think if he made me the factor of it? Well, maybe I'm daft to

think of such a thing; but he has been talking and talking in a way I

cannot understand unless some plan of that kind is in his head; ay, and

he has been making inquiries about me, as I hear; and not making much of

the forestry certificate, as to whether I get it or no; but rather, as I

should guess, thinking about putting me on this Balnavrain place as soon

as it becomes his own. Ay, ay, sweetheart; that would be a fine thing

for me, to be in a position just like that of Mr. Crawford--though on a

small scale; and who could prevent my coming to claim my good wife then,

and declaring her as mine before all the world?'

'Yes, yes, Ronald,' she said eagerly, 'but why do you talk like that?

Why do you speak as if there was trouble? Surely he will make you

factor! It was he that asked you to go away to Glasgow; he always was

your friend; if he buys the estate, who else could he get to manage it

as well?'

'But there's another thing, sweetheart,' said he, rather hopelessly.

'He spoke about it yesterday. Indeed, he put it plain enough. He asked

me fairly whether, supposing somebody was to offer me the management of

an estate, I could get guarantees--securities for my honesty, in fact;

and he even mentioned the sum that would be needed. Well, well, it's

beyond me, my girl--where could I find two people to stand surety for me

at L500 apiece?'

She uttered a little cry, and clung closer to him.

'Ronald--Ronald--surely you will not miss such a chance for that--it is

a matter of form, isn't it?--and some one----'

'But who do I know that has got L500, and that I could ask?' said he.

'Ay, and two of them. Maybe Lord Ailine might be one--he was always a

good friend to me--but two of them--two of them--well, well, good lass,

if it has all got to go, we must wait for some other chance.'

'Yes,' said Meenie bitterly, 'and this American--he calls himself a

friend of yours too--and he wants guarantees for your honesty!'

'It's the usual thing, as he said himself,' Ronald said. 'But don't be

downhearted, my dear. Hopes and disappointments come to every one, and

we must meet them like the rest. The world has always something for

us--even these few minutes--with your cheeks grown warm again--and the

scent of your hair--ay, and your heart as gentle as ever.'

But she was crying a little.

'Ronald--surely--it is not possible this chance should be so near

us--and then to be taken away. And can't I do something? I know the

Glengask people will be angry--but--but I would write to Lady Stuart--or

if I could only go to her, that would be better--it would be between

woman and woman, and surely she would not refuse when she knew how we

were placed--and--and it would be something for me to do--for you know

you've married a pauper bride, Ronald--and I bring you nothing--when

even a farmer's daughter would have her store of napery and a chest of

drawers and all that--but couldn't I do this, Ronald?--I would go and

see Lady Stuart--she could not refuse me!'

He laughed lightly; and his hands were clasped round the soft brown

hair.

'No, no, no, sweetheart; things will have come to a pretty pass before I

would have you exposed to any humiliation of that sort. And why should

you be down-hearted? The world is young for both of us. Oh, don't you

be afraid; a man that can use his ten fingers and is willing to work

will tumble into something sooner or later; and what is the use of being

lovers if we are not to have our constancy tried? No, no; you keep a

brave heart: if this chance has to be given up, we'll fall in with

another; and maybe it will be all the more welcome that we have had to

wait a little while for it.'

'A little while, Ronald?' said she.

He strove to cheer her and reassure her still further; although, indeed,

there was not much time for that; for he had been commanded to dine with

Mr. Hodson at half-past seven; and he knew better than to keep the man

who might possibly be his master waiting for dinner. And presently

Meenie and he were going quietly along the snow-hushed road; and he bade

her good-bye--many and many times repeated--near the little garden-gate;

and then made his way back to the inn. He had just time to brush his

hair and smarten himself up a bit when the pretty Nelly--who seemed to

be a little more friendly and indulgent towards him than in former

days--came to say that she had taken the soup into the parlour, and that

the gentleman was waiting.

Now Mr. Hodson was an astute person; and he suspected something, and was

anxious to know more; but he was not so ill-advised as to begin with

direct questions. For one thing, there was still a great deal to be

talked over about the Balnavrain estate--which he had almost decided on

purchasing; and, amongst other matters, Ronald was asked whether the

overseer of such a place would consider L400 a year a sufficient salary,

if a plainly and comfortably built house were thrown in; and also

whether, in ordinary circumstances, there would be any difficulty about

a young fellow obtaining two sureties to be responsible for him. From

that it was a long way round to the Doctor's daughter; but Mr. Hodson

arrived there in time; for he had brought for her a present from his own

daughter; and he seemed inclined to talk in a friendly way about the

young lady. And at last he got the whole story. Once started, Ronald

spoke frankly enough. He confessed to his day-dreams about one so far

superior to him in station; he described his going away to Glasgow; his

loneliness and despair there; his falling among evil companions and his

drinking; the message of the white heather; his pulling himself up; and

Meenie's sudden resolve and heroic self-surrender. The private marriage,

too--yes, he heard the whole story from beginning to end; and the more

he heard the more his mind was busy; though he was a quiet kind of

person, and the recital did not seem to move him in any way whatever.

And yet it may be doubted whether, in all the county of Sutherland, or

in all the realm of England, there was any happier man that night than

Mr. Josiah Hodson. For here was something entirely after his own heart.

His pet hobby was playing the part of a small beneficent Providence; and

he had already befriended Ronald, and was greatly interested in him;

moreover, had he not promised his daughter, when she lay apparently very

near to death, that Ronald should be looked after? But surely he had

never looked forward to any such opportunity as this! And then the girl

was so pretty--that, also, was something. His heart warmed to the

occasion; dinner being over, they drew their chairs towards the big

fireplace where the peats were blazing cheerfully; Ronald was bidden to

light his pipe; and then; the American--in a quiet, indifferent,

sententious way, as if he were talking of some quite abstract and

unimportant matter--made his proposal.

'Well, now, Ronald,' said he, as he stirred up some of the peats with

his foot, 'you seemed to think that L400 a year and a house thrown in

was good enough for the overseer of that Balnavrain place. I don't know

what your intentions are; but if you like to take that situation, it's

yours.'

Ronald looked startled--but only for a moment.

'I thank ye, sir; I thank ye,' he said, with rather a downcast face. 'I

will not say I had no suspicion ye were thinking of some such kindness;

and I thank ye--most heartily I thank ye. But it's beyond me. I could

not get the securities.'

'Well, now, as to that,' the American said, after a moment's

consideration, 'I am willing to take one security--I mean for the whole

amount; and I want to name the person myself. If Miss Douglas will go

bail for you--or Mrs. Strang, I suppose I should call her--then there is

no more to be said. Ronald, my good fellow, if the place is worth your

while, take it; it's yours.'

A kind of flash of joy and gratitude leapt to the younger man's eyes;

but all he could manage to say was--

'If I could only tell _her_!'

'Well, now, as to that again,' said Mr. Hodson, rising slowly, and

standing with his back to the fire, 'I have got to take along that

present from my daughter--to-morrow morning would be best; and I could

give her the information, if you wished. But I'll tell you what would

be still better, my friend: you just let me settle this little affair

with the old people--with the mamma, as I understand. I'm not much of a

talkist; but if you give me permission I'll have a try; I think we might

come to some kind of a reasonable understanding, if she doesn't flatten

me with her swell relations. Why, yes, I think I can talk sense to her.

I don't want to see the girl kept in that position; your Scotch

ways--well, we haven't got any old ballads in my country, and we like to

have our marriages fair and square and aboveboard: now let me tell the

old lady the whole story, and try to make it up with her. She can't

scold my head off.'

And by this time he was walking up and down the room; and he continued--

'No; I shall go round to-morrow afternoon, when we come back from the

fishing. And look here, Ronald; this is what I want you to do; you must

get the other boat down to the lake--and you will go in that one--and

get another lad or two--I will pay them anything they want. I can't have

my overseer acting as gillie, don't you see--if I am going to talk with

his mother-in-law; you must get out the other boat; and if you catch a

salmon or two, just you send them along to the Doctor, with your

compliments--do you hear, your compliments, not mine. Now----'

'And I have not a word of thanks!' Ronald exclaimed. 'My head is just

bewildered----'

'Say, now,' the American continued quietly--in fact, he seemed to be

considering his finger-nails more than anything else, as he walked up

and down the room--'say, now, what do you think the Doctor's income

amounts to in the year? Not much? Two hundred pounds with all expenses

paid?'

'I really don't know,' Ronald said--not understanding the drift of this

question.

'Not three hundred, anyway?'

'I'm sure I don't know.'

'Ah. Well, now, I've got to talk to that old lady to-morrow about the

prospects of her son-in-law--though she don't know she has got one,' Mr.

Hodson was saying--half to himself, as it were. 'I suppose she'll jump

on me when I begin. But there's one thing. If I can't convince her

with four hundred a year, I'll try her with five--and Carry shall kiss

me the difference.'

*CHAPTER XVI.*

*THE FACTOR OF BALNAVRAIN.*

Well, now, some couple of months or so thereafter, this same Miss Carry

was one of a party of four--all Americans--who set out from Lairg

station to drive to Inver-Mudal; and very comfortable and content with

each other they seemed to be when they were ensconced in the big

waggonette. For a convalescent, indeed, Miss Hodson appeared to be in

excellent spirits; but there may have been reasons for that; for she had

recently become engaged; and her betrothed, to mark that joyful

circumstance, had left for Europe with her; and it was his first trip to

English shores; and more especially it was his first trip to the

Highlands of Scotland; and very proud was she of her self-imposed office

of chaperon and expounder and guide. Truth to tell, the long and lank

editor found that in many respects he had fallen upon troublous times;

for not only was he expected to be profoundly interested in historical

matters about which he did not care a red cent, and to accept any and

every inconvenience and discomfort as if it were a special blessing from

on high, and to be ready at all moments to admire mountains and glens

and lakes when he would much rather have been talking of something more

personal to Miss Carry and himself, but also--and this was the cruellest

wrong of all--he had to listen to continued praises of Ronald Strang

that now and again sounded suspiciously like taunts. And on such

occasions he was puzzled by the very audacity of her eyes. She regarded

him boldly--as if to challenge him to say that she did not mean every

word she uttered; and he dared not quarrel with her, or dispute; though

sometimes he had his own opinion as to whether those pretty soft dark

eyes were quite so innocent and simple and straightforward as they

pretended to be.

'Ah,' said she, as they were now driving away from the village into the

wide, wild moorland, 'ah, when you see Ronald, you will see a man.'

She had her eyes fixed on him.

'I suppose they don't grow that kind of a thing in our country,' he

answered meekly.

'I mean,' she said, with a touch of pride, 'I mean a man who is not

ashamed to be courteous to women--a man who knows how to show proper

respect to women.'

'Why, yes, I'll allow you won't find that quality in an American,' he

said, with a subtle sarcasm that escaped her, for she was too obviously

bent on mischief.

'And about the apology, now?'

'What apology?'

'For your having published an insulting article about Ronald, to be

sure. Of course you will have to apologise to him, before this very day

is over.'

'I will do anything else you like,' the long editor said, with much

complaisance. 'I will fall in love with the young bride, if you like.

Or I'll tell lies about the weight of the salmon when I get back home.

But an apology? Seems to me a man making an apology looks about as

foolish as a woman throwing a stone: I don't see my way to that.

Besides, where does the need of it come in, anyhow? You never read the

article. It was very complimentary, as I think; yes, it was so; a whole

column and more about a Scotch gamekeeper----'

'A Scotch gamekeeper!' Miss Carry said proudly. 'Well, now, just you

listen to me. Ronald knows nothing at all about this article; if he

did, he would only laugh at it; but he never heard of it; and it's not

to be spoken of here. But I mean to speak of it, by and by. I mean to

speak of it, when I make the acquaintance of--what's his distinguished

name?----'

But here Miss Kerfoot--who, with her married sister, occupied the other

side of the waggonette--broke in.

'You two quarrelling again!' And then she sighed. 'But what is the good

of a drive, anyway, when we haven't got Doctor Tom and his banjo?'

'A banjo--in Strath-Terry?' Miss Carry cried. 'Do you mean to say you

would like to hear a banjo tinkle-tinkling in a country like this?'

'Yes, my dyaw,' said Miss Kerfoot coolly: she had been making some

studies in English pronunciation, and was getting on pretty well.

'I suppose you can't imagine how Adam passed the time without one in the

Garden of Eden--wanted to play to Eve on the moonlight nights--a

cake-walk, I suppose--pumpkin-pie--why, I wonder what's the use of

bringing you to Europe.'

For answer Miss Kerfoot began to hum to herself--but with the words

sounding clearly enough--

_'I'se gwine back to Dixie,_

_I'se gwine back to Dixie,_

_I'se gwine where the orange blossoms grow;_

_O, I'd rather be in Dixie,_

_I'd rather be in Dixie,_

_For travelling in the Highlands is so----'_

But here remorse of conscience smote her; and she seized Carry's hand.

'No, I won't say it--you poor, weak, invalid thing. And were they

worrying you about the Highlands, and the slow trains, and the stuffy

omnibus at Lairg? Well, they shan't say anything more to you--that they

shan't; and you are to have everything your own way; and I'm going to

fall in love with Ronald, just to keep you company.'

But alas! when they did eventually get to Inver-Mudal, there was no

Ronald to be found there. Mr. Murray was there, and Mrs. Murray, and

the yellow-haired Nelly; and the travellers were told that luncheon was

awaiting them; and also that Mr. Hodson had had the second boat put in

readiness, lest any of them should care to try the fishing in the

afternoon.

'But where is Ronald?' said Miss Carry, not in the least concealing her

vexation.

'Don't cry, poor thing,' Miss Kerfoot whispered to her. 'It shall have

its Ronald!'

'Oh, don't bother!' she said angrily. 'Mr. Murray, where is Ronald? Is

he with my father on the loch?'

'No, no; it's the two gillies that's with Mr. Hodson on the loch,' the

innkeeper said. 'And do not you know, Miss, that Ronald is not here at

ahl now; he is away at the place in Ross-shire.'

'Oh yes, I know that well enough,' she said, 'but my father wrote that

he was coming over to see us for a day or two; and he was to be here

this morning--and his wife as well. But it is of no consequence. I

suppose we had better go in and have lunch now.'

Miss Kerfoot was covertly laughing. But there was a young lad there

called Johnnie--a shy lad he was, and he was standing apart from the

others, and thus it was that he could see along the road leading down to

the Mudal bridge. Something in that direction attracted Johnnie's

attention; he came over and said a word or two to Mr. Murray; the

innkeeper went to the gable of the house, so that he could get a look up

Tongue way, and then he said--

'Oh yes, I think that will be Ronald.'

'Don't you hear?' said Miss Kerfoot, who was following the others into

the inn. 'They say that Ronald is coming right now.'

Miss Carry turned at once, and went to where the inn-keeper was

standing. Away along there, and just coming over the bridge, was a

dog-cart, with two figures in it. She watched it. By and by it was

pulled up in front of the Doctor's cottage; she guessed that that was

Meenie who got down from the vehicle and went into the house; no doubt

this was Ronald who was now bringing the dog-cart along to the inn. And

then the others were summoned; and presently Ronald had arrived and was

being introduced to them; and Miss Carry had forgotten all her

impatience, for he looked just as handsome and good-natured and

modest-eyed as ever; and it was very clear that Miss Kerfoot was much

impressed with the frankness and simplicity of his manner; and the

editor strove to be particularly civil; and Mrs. Lalor regarded the

new-comer with an obviously approving glance. For they all had heard

the story; and they were interested in him, and in his young wife;

besides, they did not wish to wound the feelings of this poor invalid

creature--and they knew what she thought of Ronald.

And how was he to answer all at once these hundred questions about the

Ross-shire place, and the house that was building for them, and the farm

where he and his wife were temporarily staying?

'Come in and have lunch with us, Ronald,' said Miss Carry, in her usual

frank way, 'and then you will tell us all about it. We were just going

in; and it's on the table.'

'I cannot do that very well, I thank ye,' said he, 'for I have to go

back to the Doctor's as soon as I have seen the mare looked after--

'Oh, but I thought you were coming down to the loch with us!' she said,

with very evident disappointment.

'Yes, yes, to be sure!' said he. 'I'll be back in a quarter of an hour

at the furthest; and then I'll take one of the lads with me and we'll

have the other boat got out as well.'

'But you don't understand, Ronald,' she said quickly. 'The other boat is

there--ready--and two gillies, and rods, and everything. I only want

you to come with us for luck; there's always good luck when you are in

the boat. Ah, do you know what they did to me on Lake George?'

'Indeed, I was sorry to hear of it, Miss,' said he gravely.

'Miss!' she repeated, with a kind of reproach; but she could not keep

the others waiting any longer; and so there was an appointment made that

they were all to meet at the loch-side in half an hour; and she and her

friends went into the house.

When it came to setting out, however, Mrs. Lalor begged to be excused;

she was a little bit tired, she said, and would go and lie down. So the

other three went by themselves; and when they got down to the loch, they

not only found that Ronald was there awaiting them, but also that Mr.

Hodson had reeled up his lines and come ashore to welcome them. Of

course that was the sole reason. At the same time the gillies had got

out three remarkably handsome salmon and put them on the grass; and that

was the display that met the eyes of the strangers when they drew near.

Mr. Hodson was not proud; but he admitted that they were good-looking

fish. Yes; it was a fair morning's work. But there were plenty more

where these came from, he said encouragingly; they'd better begin.

Whereupon Miss Carry said promptly--

'Come along, Em. Mr. Huysen, will you go with pappa, when he is ready?

And Ronald will come with us, to give us good luck at the start.'

Miss Kerfoot said nothing, but did as she was bid; she merely cast a

glance at Mr. Huysen as they were leaving; and her eyes were demure.

However, if she considered this manoeuvre--as doubtless she did--a piece

of mere wilful and perverse coquetry on the part of her friend, she was

entirely mistaken. It simply never would have entered Miss Carry's head

that Ronald should have gone into any other person's boat, so long as

she was there--nor would it have entered his head either. But besides

that, she had brought something for him; and she wished to have time to

show it to him; and so, when the boat was well away from the shore, and

when he had put out both the lines, she asked him to be so kind as to

undo the long case lying there, and to put the rod together, and say

what he thought of it. It was a salmon-rod, she explained; of American

make; she had heard they were considered rather superior articles; and

if he approved of this one, she begged that he would keep it.

He looked up with a little surprise.

'Ye are just too kind,' said he. 'There's that beautiful rug that you

sent to my wife, now----'

'But isn't it useful?' she said, in her quick, frank way. 'Isn't it

comfortable? When you were coming along this morning, didn't she find

it comfortable?'

'Bless me!' he cried. 'Do you think she would put a beautiful thing

like that into a dog-cart to be splashed with mud, and soiled with one's

boots? No, no; it's put over an easy-chair at the Doctor's, until we

get a house of our own, and proud she is of it, as she ought to be.'

And proud was he, too, of this beautiful rod--if he declared that it was

far too fine for this coarse trolling work; and Miss Kerfoot arrived at

the impression that if he could not make pretty speeches of thanks,

there was that in his manner that showed he was not ungrateful.

Nor was Miss Carry's faith in Ronald's good luck belied; for they had

not been more than twenty minutes out on the loch when they had got hold

of something; and at once she rose superior to the excitement of the

gillies, and to the consternation of her American friend. Perhaps she

was showing off a little; at all events, she seemed quite cool and

collected, as if this strain on the rod and the occasional long scream

of the reel were a usual kind of thing; and Ronald looked on in quiet

composure, believing that his pupil was best left alone. But alas!

alas! for that long illness. The fish was a heavy one and a game

fighter; Miss Carry's arms were weaker than she had thought; at the end

of about a quarter of an hour--during which time the salmon had been

plunging and boring and springing, and making long rushes in every

conceivable manner--she began to feel the strain. But she was a brave

lass; as long as ever she could stand upright, she held on; then she

said, rather faintly--

'Ronald!'

'Take the rod,' she said, 'the fish isn't played out; but I am.'

'What's the matter?' said he, in great alarm, as she sank on to the

seat.

'Oh, nothing, nothing,' she said, though she was a little pale. 'Give

Em the rod--give Miss Kerfoot the rod--quick, Em, get up and land your

first salmon.'

'Oh my gracious, no! I should die of fright!' was the immediate answer.

But Ronald had no intention of allowing Miss Carry's salmon to be handed

over to any one else. He turned to the gillies.

'Is there not a drop of whisky in the boat? Quick, lads, if you have

such a thing--quick, quick!--

They handed him a small green bottle; but she shrank from it.

'The taste is too horrid for anything,' she said. 'But I will have

another try. Stand by me, Ronald; and mind I don't fall overboard.'

She got hold of the rod again; he held her right arm--but only to steady

her.

'Carry--Carry!' her friend said anxiously. 'I wish you'd leave it

alone. Remember, you've been ill--it's too much for you--oh, I wish the

thing would go away!'

'I mean to wave the banner over this beast, if I die for it,' Miss Carry

said, under her breath; and Ronald laughed--for that was more of his way

of thinking.

'We'll have him, sure enough,' he said. 'Ay, and a fine fish, too, that

I know.'

'Oh, Ronald!' she cried.

For there was a sudden and helpless slackening of the line. But she had

experience enough to reel up hard; and presently it appeared that the

salmon was there--very much there, in fact, for now it began to go

through some performances--within five-and-twenty yards of the

boat--that nearly frightened Miss Kerfoot out of her wits. And then

these cantrips moderated slowly down; the line was got in shorter;

Ronald, still steadying Miss Carry's right arm with his left hand, got

hold of the clip in the other; and the young lady who was the spectator

of all this manoeuvring began rather to draw away in fear, as that large

white gleaming thing showed nearer and nearer the coble. Nay, she

uttered a quick cry of alarm when a sudden dive of the steel hook

brought out of the water a huge silvery creature that the next moment

was in the bottom of the boat; and then she found that Carry had sunk

down beside her, pretty well exhausted, but immensely proud: and that

the gillies were laughing and vociferous and excited over the capture;

and Ronald calmly getting out his scale-weight from his pocket. The

other boat was just then passing.

'A good one?' Mr. Hodson called out.

'Just over sixteen pounds, sir.'

'Well done. But leave us one or two; don't take them all.'

Miss Carry paid no heed. She was far too much exhausted; but pleased

and satisfied, also, that she had been able to see this fight to the

end. And she remembered enough of the customs of the country to ask the

two gillies to take a dram--though it had to come from their own bottle;

she said she would see that that was replenished when they got back to

the inn.

It was a beautiful clear evening as they all of them--the fishing having

been given up for the day--walked away through the meadows, and up into

the road, and so on to the little hamlet; the western sky was shining in

silver-gray and lemon and saffron; and there was a soft sweet feeling

almost as of summer in the air, though the year was yet young. They had

got six fish all told; that is to say, Mr. Hodson's boat had got one

more in the afternoon; while Miss Carry had managed to pick up a small

thing of eight pounds or so just as they were leaving off. The fact

was, they did not care to prosecute the fishing till the last moment;

for there was to be a little kind of a dinner-celebration that evening;

and no doubt some of them wanted to make themselves as smart as

possible--though the possibilities, as a rule, don't go very far in the

case of a fishing-party in a Highland inn--all to pay due honour to the

bride.

And surely if ever Meenie could lay claim to the title of Rose-Meenie it

was on this evening when she came among these stranger folk--who were

aware of her story, if not a word was said or hinted of it--and found

all the women be-petting her. And Mrs. Douglas was there, radiant in

silk and ribbons, if somewhat austere in manner; and the big

good-natured Doctor was there, full to overflowing with jests and quips

and occult Scotch stories; and Mr. and Mrs. Murray had done their very

best for the decoration of the dining-room--though Sutherlandshire in

April is far from being Florida. And perhaps, too, Miss Carry was a

little paid out when she saw the perfectly servile adulation which Mr.

J. C. Huysen (who had a sensitive heart, according to the young men of

the _N. Y. Sun_) laid at the feet of the pretty young bride; though Mr.

Hodson rather interfered with that, claiming Mrs. Strang as his own. Of

course, Miss Kerfoot was rather down-hearted, because of the absence of

her Tom and his banjo; but Ronald had promised her she should kill a

salmon on the morrow; and that comforted her a little. Mrs. Lalor had

recovered, and was chiefly an amused spectator; there was a good deal of

human nature about; and she had eyes.

Altogether it was a pleasant enough evening; for, although the Americans

and the Scotch are the two nations out of all the world that are the

most madly given to after-dinner speech-making, nothing of the kind was

attempted: Mr. Hodson merely raised his glass and gave 'The Bride!' and

Ronald said a few manly and sensible words in reply. Even Mrs. Douglas

so far forgot the majesty of Glengask and Orosay as to become quite

complaisant; perhaps she reflected that it was, after all, chiefly

through the kindness of these people that her daughter and her

daughter's husband had been placed in a comfortable and assured

position.

Ronald and Meenie had scarcely had time as yet to cease from being

lovers; and so it was that on this same night he presented her with two

or three more of those rhymes that sometimes he still wrote about her

when the fancy seized him. In fact, he had written these verses as he

sate on the deck of the big screw-steamer, when she was slowly steaming

up the Raasay Sound.

_O what's the sweetest thing there is_

_In all the wide, wide world?--_

_A rose that hides its deepest scent_

_In the petals closely curled?_

_Of the honey that's in the clover;_

_Or the lark's song in the morn;_

_Or the wind that blows in summer_

_Across the fields of corn;_

_Or the dew that the queen of the fairies_

_From her acorn-chalice sips?_

_Ah no; for sweeter and sweeter far_

_Is a kiss from Meenie's lips!_

And Meenie was pleased--perhaps, indeed, she said as much and showed as

much, when nobody was by; but all the same she hid away the little

fragment among a mass of similar secret treasures she possessed; for she

was a young wife now; and fully conscious of the responsibilities of her

position; and well was she aware that it would never do for any one to

imagine that nonsense of that kind was allowed to interfere with the

important public duties of the factor of Balnavrain.

THE END.

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