_Song_ . . . 'My love she's but a lassie yet.' . . MR. RONALD STRANG.

_Reading_ . . 'The Cameronian's Dream.' . . . . . . Miss M. DOUGLAS.

_Song_ . . . 'O dinna cross the burn, Willie.' . . MR. RONALD STRANG.

_Pipe-Music_ 'Lord Breadalbane's March.' . . . . . MR. RONALD STRANG.

_Service of Oranges._

_Hymn_ . . . 'Whither, pilgrims, are you going?' . . CHILDREN.

_Duet_ . . . 'Huntingtower.' . . . . . . . . . . . . { Miss M. DOUGLAS

{ & Miss M. STRANG.

But at this point Maggie broke into pure affright.

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

'But only before children!' was the quick remonstrance. 'Would you have

Ronald do everything? Why, look--an address--a song--a song--a march on

the pipes--is he to have no rest at all?'

'But you, Meenie--you can sing so well and without trouble--I know I

will spoil everything----'

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

'Ferry well,' she said, in spite of her Edinburgh birth; and she was

evidently vastly proud of her skill in drawing up so brilliant and

varied a programme. Maggie continued her reading--but now in some

alarm:

_Song_ . . . . 'The Laird o' Cockpen.' . . . . . MR. RONALD STRANG.

_Reading_ . . 'Jeanie Morrison.' . . . . . . . Miss M. DOUGLAS.

_Service of Shortbread._

_Song_ . . . . 'Gloomy Winter's now awa'.' . . . MR. RONALD STRANG.

_Song_ . . . . 'Auld Lang Syne.' . . . . . . . . THE COMPANY.

_Vote of thanks to the Chairman_ . . . . . . . . Miss M. DOUGLAS.

_Finale._

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

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

skill of arrangement.

'But, Meenie,' her companion said, 'why have ye not put down a duet

between you and Ronald? He can sing so well; and you; and that would be

prettier far than anything. Do ye no mind the time we were a' away

fishing at Loch Loyal; and we were walking back; and Ronald was telling

us of what he saw in a theatre in Edinburgh? And when he told us about

the young lady's sweetheart coming in a boat at night, and singing to

her below the window, you knew what it was well enough--and you tried it

together--oh! that was so fine! Will ye no ask him to sing that with

ye?'

Meenie's face flushed somewhat; and she would have evaded the question

with a little laugh but that it was repeated. Whereupon she said--

'Why, now, Maggie, you have such a memory! And I have no doubt there

was nonsense going on as we were walking back from Loch Loyal--for a

beautiful night it was, in the middle of summer, when there is no

darkness at all in the skies all the night long. Oh yes, I remember it

too; and very well; but it was amongst ourselves; we are not going to

have any such nonsense before other people. And if we were to sing "O

hush thee, my baby," would not the children be thinking it was a hint

for them to go away to bed? And besides, surely I have asked Ronald to

do enough for us; do you not think he will be surprised, and perhaps

angry, when he sees how often his name comes there?'

'Indeed no, I'm sure,' Maggie said promptly. 'There's just nothing that

he wouldna do for you, Meenie.'

'But I will wait till I see him in a good humour,' said her friend,

laughing, 'before I ask him for so much.'

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

touches.

'And do ye think ye could ever find him in an ill-humour wi' you?'

Maggie said, almost reproachfully.

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

'Very well, then,' Meenie said, 'we will suppose that is settled. And

what is next? Why, Maggie, if I had not the brain of a prime minister,

I could never get through so many schemes. Oh, this is it: of course we

shall be very much obliged to them if they lend us the barn and all its

fittings and we should do something for them in return. And I am sure

the lads will be thinking of nothing but the carpentering; and the

lasses at the inn will be thinking only of the cooking of the supper,

and their own ribbons and frocks. Now, Maggie, suppose you and I were

to do something to make the barn look pretty; I am sure Ronald would cut

us a lot of fir-branches, for there's nothing else just now; and we

could fix them up all round the barn; and then--look here.'

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

various colours.

'We will have to make paper flowers for them, because there's none

growing just now; and very well they will look among the fir-branches.

Oh yes, very well indeed. Red and white roses do not grow on

fir-branches--it does not need the old man of Ross to tell us that; but

they will look very well whatever; and then large orange lilies, and

anything to make a bold show in so big a place. And if the lads are

making a chandelier out of the hoops of a barrel, we will ask them to

let us put red worsted round the hoops; that will look very well too.

For we must do something to thank them, Maggie; and then, indeed, when

it comes to our turn, we will have the chance too of looking at the

decorations when we have the children's soiree.'

Maggie looked up quickly.

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

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

only said--

'Well, no one has asked me.'

And the little Maggie flushed with shame and vexation.

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

'Oh, I have known about it for a long time,' she said lightly, 'and I

was very glad to hear of it, for I thought it was a great chance for me

to get the loan of the barn.'

'But you--you, Meenie--that they did not ask you first of all!' the

younger girl cried. 'But it can only be that every one is expected to

come--every one except the small children who canna sit up late. And

I'm sure I did not expect to go; but Mr. Murray, he was joking and

saying that I would have to dance the first dance wi' him; and Ronald

said I might be there for a while. But--but--I'm no going if you're no

going, Meenie.'

'But that is nonsense, Maggie,' the other said good-naturedly. 'Of

course you must go. And I should like well enough----'

'I am sure Mr. Murray would put you at the head of the table--by his own

side--and proud, too!' Maggie exclaimed warmly.

'And I am sure I should not wish anything like that,' Meenie said,

laughing. 'I would far rather go with you. I would like to see some of

the dancing.'

'Oh, Meenie,' her companion said, with eyes full of earnestness, 'did

you ever see Ronald dance the sword-dance?'

'No, I have not, Maggie.'

'They say there is none can do it like him. And if he would only go to

the Highland meetings, he could win prizes and medals--and for the

pipe-playing too, and the tossing the caber. There is not one of the

lads can come near him; but it is not often that he tries; for he is not

proud.'

'I am glad that he does not go to the Highland meetings,' Meenie said,

rather quietly, and with her eyes cast down.

'No, he is not proud,' said Maggie, continuing (for she had but the one

hero in all the world), 'although there is nothing he canna do better

than any of them. There was one of the gentlemen said to him last

year--the gentleman hadna been shooting very well the day before--he

said, "Ronald, let one of the gillies look after the dogs to-day, and go

you and bring your gun, and make up for my mistakes;" and when he came

home in the evening, he said, "It was a clean day's shooting the day; we

did not leave one wounded bird or hare behind us." And another

gentleman was saying, "Ronald, if ye could sell your eye-sight, I would

give ye five hundred pounds for't." And Duncan was saying that this

gentleman that's come for the fishing, he doesna talk to Ronald about

the salmon and the loch, but about everything in the country, and Ronald

knows as well as him about such things. And his lordship, too, he

writes to Ronald, "Dear Ronald," and quite friendly; and when he was

going away he gave Ronald his own pipe, that has got a silver band on

it, and his tobacco-pouch, with the letters of his name worked in silk.

And there's not one can say that Ronald's proud.'

Well, this was very idle talk; and moreover it was continued, for the

red-haired and freckled little sister was never weary of relating the

exploits of her handsome brother--the adventures he had had with

wild-cats, and stags, and seals, and eagles, and the like; and,

strangely enough, Miss Douglas showed no sign of impatience whatever.

Nay, she listened with an interest that scarcely allowed her to

interrupt with a word; and with satisfaction and approval, to judge by

her expression; and all that she would say from time to time--and

absently--was:

'But he is so careless, Maggie! Why don't you speak to him? You really

must make him more heedful of himself.'

However, the night was going by; and Maggie's praises and recitals had

come to an end. Meenie went down to the door to see her friend

comfortably wrapped up; but there was no need of escort; the stars were

shining clear, though the wind still howled blusteringly. And so they

said good-bye; and Maggie went on through the dark to the cottage,

thinking that Meenie Douglas was the most beautiful and sweet and

warm-hearted companion she was ever likely to meet with through all her

life, and wondering how it came about that Ronald and Mr. Murray and the

rest of them had been so disgracefully neglectful in not inviting her to

the New Year's festivities on the forthcoming Monday. Ronald, at least,

should hear of his remissness, and that at once.

*CHAPTER VII.*

*AN EYRIE.*

'Come along, Harry, my lad,' the young keeper cried next morning to his

faithful terrier, 'and we'll go and have a look up the hill.'

He slipped a cartridge or two into his pocket, more by custom than

design as it were; put his gun over his shoulder; and went out into the

cold clear air, the little terrier trotting at his heels. The vague

unrest of the previous evening was altogether gone now; he was his

natural self again; as he strode along the road he was lightly

singing--but also under his breath, lest any herd-laddie should

overhear--

_Roses red, roses white,_

_Roses in the lane,_

_Tell me, roses white and red,_

_Where is Meenie gane!_

And when he got as far as the inn he found that the mail-cart had just

arrived, so he turned aside to have a little gossip with the small group

of shepherds and others who had come to see whether there were any

newspapers or letters for them. He was a great favourite with these;

perhaps also an object of envy to the younger of the lads; for he lived

the life of a gentleman, one might say, and was his own master;

moreover, where was there any one who looked so smart and dressed so

neatly--his Glengarry cap, his deerstalking jacket, his knickerbockers,

his hand-knitted socks, and white spats, and shoes, being all so trim

and well cared for, even in this wild winter weather? There was some

laughing and joking about the forthcoming supper-party; and more than

one of them would have had him go inside with them to have 'a glass,'

but he was proof against that temptation; while the yellow-haired Nelly,

who was at work within, happening to turn her eyes to the window, and

catching sight of him standing there, and being jealous of his

popularity with all those shepherd-lads and gillies, suddenly said to

her mistress--

'There's Ronald outside, mem, and I think he might go away and shoot

something for the gentleman's dinner.'

'Very well,' said Mrs. Murray; 'go and say that I would be very much

obliged to him indeed if he would bring me a hare or two the first time

he is going up the hill, but at his own convenience, to be sure.'

But that was not the message that Nelly went to deliver. She wanted to

show her authority before all these half-critical idlers, and also, as a

good-looking lass, her independence and her mastery over men-folk.

'Ronald,' said she, at the door of the inn, 'I think you might just as

well be going up the hill and bringing us down a hare or two, instead of

standing about here doing nothing.'

'Is that Highland manners, lass?' he said, but with perfect good humour.

'I'm thinking ye might say "if ye please." But I'll get ye a hare or

two, sure enough, and ye'll keep the first dance for me on Monday

night.'

'Indeed I am not sure that I will be at the dancing at all,' retorted

the pretty Nelly; but this was merely to cover her retreat--she did not

wish to have any further conversation before that lot of idle

half-grinning fellows.

As for Ronald, he bade them good-morning, and went lightly on his way

again. He was going up the hill anyway; and he might as well bring down

a brace of hares for Mrs. Murray; so, after walking along the road for a

mile or so, he struck off across some rough and partly marshy ground,

and presently began to climb the lower slopes of Clebrig, getting ever a

wider and wider view as he ascended, and always when he turned finding

beneath him the wind-stirred waters of the loch, where a tiny dark

object, slow-moving near the shores, told him where the salmon fishers

were patiently pursuing their sport.

No, there were no more unsettling notions in his brain; here he was

master and monarch of all he surveyed; and if he was profoundly

unconscious of the ease with which he breasted this steep hillside, at

least he rejoiced in the ever-widening prospect--as lochs and hills and

stretches of undulating moorland seemed to stretch ever and ever outward

until, afar in the north, he could make out the Kyle of Tongue and the

faint line of the sea. It was a wild and changeable day; now filled

with gloom, again bursting forth into a blaze of yellow sunshine; while

ever and anon some flying tag of cloud would come sweeping across the

hillside and engulf him, so that all he could then discern was the rough

hard heather and bits of rock around his feet. It was just as one of

these transient clouds was clearing off that he was suddenly startled by

a loud noise--as of iron rattling on stones; and so bewildering was this

unusual noise in the intense silence reigning there that instinctively

he wheeled round and lowered his gun. And then again, the next second,

what he saw was about as bewildering as what he had heard--a great

creature, quite close by, and yet only half visible in the clearing

mist, with huge outspread wings, dragging something after it across the

broken rocks. The truth flashed upon him in an instant; it was an eagle

caught in a fox-trap; the strange noise was the trap striking here and

there on a stone. At once he put down his gun on an exposed knoll and

gave chase, with the greatest difficulty subduing the eager desire of

the yelping Harry to rush forward and attack the huge bird by himself.

It was a rough and ludicrous pursuit but it ended in capture--though

here, again, circumspection was necessary, for the eagle, with all his

neck-feathers bristling, struck at him again and again with the talons

that were free, only one foot having been caught in the trap. But the

poor beast was quite exhausted; an examination of the trap showed Ronald

that he must have flown with this weight attached to his leg all the way

from Ben Ruach, some half dozen miles away; and now, though there was

yet an occasional automatic motion of the beak or the claws, as though

he would still strike for liberty, he submitted to be firmly seized

while the iron teeth of the trap were being opened. And then Ronald

looked at his prize (but still with a careful grip). He was a splendid

specimen of the golden eagle--a bird that is only found here and there

in Sutherlandshire, though the keepers are no longer allowed to kill

them--and, despite himself, looking at the noble creature, he began to

ask himself casuistical questions. Would not this make a handsome gift

for Meenie?--he could send the bird to Macleay at Inverness, and have it

stuffed and returned without anybody knowing. Moreover, the keepers

were only charged to abstain from shooting such golden eagles as they

might find on their own ground; and he knew from the make of the trap

that this one must have come from a different shooting altogether; it

was not a Clebrig eagle at all. But he looked at the fierce eye of the

beast, and its undaunted mien; he knew that, if it could, it would fight

to the death; and he felt a kind of pride in the creature, and

admiration for it, and even a sort of sympathy and fellow-feeling.

'My good chap,' said he, 'I'm not going to kill you in cold blood--not

me. Go back to your wife and weans, wherever they are. Off!'

And he tried to throw the big beast into the air. But this was not like

flinging up a released pigeon. The eagle fell forward, and stumbled

twice ere it could get its great wings into play; and then, instead of

trying to soar upward, it went flapping away down wind--increasing in

speed, until he could see it, now rising somewhat, cross the lower

windings of Loch Naver, and make away for the northern skies.

'It's a God's mercy,' he was saying to himself, as he went back to get

his gun, 'that I met the creature in the daytime; had it been at night,

I would hae thought it was the devil.'

Some two or three hundred feet still farther up the hillside he came to

his own eyrie--a great mass of rock, affording shelter from either

southerly or easterly winds, and surrounded with some smaller stones;

and here he sate contentedly down to look around him--Harry crouched at

his feet, his nose between his paws, but his eyes watchful. And this

wide stretch of country between Clebrig and the northern sea would have

formed a striking prospect in any kind of weather--the strange and

savage loneliness of the moorlands; the solitary lakes with never a sign

of habitation along their shores; the great ranges of mountains whose

silent recesses are known only to the stag and the hind; but on such a

morning as this it was all as unstable and unreal as it was wildly

beautiful and picturesque;--for the hurrying weather made a kind of

phantasmagoria of the solid land; bursts of sunlight that struck on the

yellow straths were followed by swift gray cloud-wreaths blotting out

the world; and again and again the white snow-peaks of the hills would

melt away and become invisible only to reappear again shining and

glorious in a sky of brilliant blue; until, indeed, it seemed as if the

earth had no substance and fixed foundation at all, but was a mere

dream, an aerial vision, changed and moved and controlled by some unseen

and capricious hand.

And then again, on the dark and wind-driven lake far below him, that

small object was still to be made out--like some minute, black, crawling

water insect. He took out his glass from its leather case, adjusted it,

and placed it to his eye. What was this? In the world suddenly brought

near--and yet dimly near, as though a film interposed--he could see that

some one was standing up in the stern of the boat, and another crouching

down, by his side. Was that a clip or the handle of the landing-net; in

other words, was it a salmon or a kelt that was fighting them there? He

swept the dull waters of the loch with his glass; but could make out no

splashing or springing anywhere near them. And then he could see by the

curve of the rod that the fish was close at hand; there was a minute or

two longer of anxiety; then a sudden movement on the part of the

crouching person--and behold a silver-white object gleams for a moment

in the air and then disappears!

'Good!' he says to himself--with a kind of sigh of satisfaction as if he

had himself taken part in the struggle and capture.

How peaceful looks the little hamlet of Inver-Mudal! The wild

storm-clouds, and the bursts of sunlight, and the howling winds seem to

sail over it unheeded; down in the hollow there surely all is quiet and

still. And is Meenie singing at her work, by the window; or perhaps

superintending Maggie's lessons; or gone away on one of the lonely walks

that she is fond of--up by the banks of the Mudal Water? It is a bleak

and a bare stream; there is scarce a bush on its banks; and yet he knows

of no other river--however hung with foliage and flowers--that is so

sweet and sacred and beautiful. What was it he wrote in the bygone

year--one summer day when he had seen her go by--and he, too, was near

the water, and could hear the soft murmuring over the pebbles? He

called the idle verses

MUDAL IN JUNE.

_Mudal, that comes from the lonely mere,_

_Silent or whispering, vanishing ever,_

_Know you of aught that concerns us here?--_

_You, youngest of all God's creatures, a river._

_Born of a yesterday's summer shower,_

_And hurrying on with your restless motion,_

_Silent or whispering, every hour,_

_To lose yourself in the great lone ocean._

_Your banks remain; but you go by,_

_Through day and through darkness swiftly sailing:_

_Say, do you hear the curlew cry,_

_And the snipe in the night-time hoarsely wailing?_

_Do you watch the wandering hinds in the morn;_

_Do you hear the grouse-cock crow in the heather;_

_Do you see the lark spring up from the corn,_

_All in the radiant summer weather?_

_O Mudal stream, how little you know_

_That Meenie has loved you, and loves you ever;_

_And while to your ocean home you flow,_

_She says good-bye to her well-loved river!--_

_O see you her now--she is coming anigh--_

_And the flower in her hand her aim discloses:_

_Laugh, Mudal, your thanks as you're hurrying by--_

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

Well, that was written as long ago as last midsummer; and was Meenie

still as far away from him as then, and as ignorant as ever of his mute

worship of her, and of these verses that he had written about her? But

he indulged in no day-dreams. Meenie was as near to him as he had any

right to expect--giving him of an assured and constant friendship; and

as for these passing rhymes--well, he tried to make them as worthy of

her as he could, though he knew she should never see them; polishing

them, in so far as they might be said to have any polish at all, in

honour of her; and, what is more to the point, at once cutting out and

destroying any of them that seemed to savour either of affectation or of

echo. No: the rude rhymes should at least be honest and of his own

invention and method; imitations he could not, even in fancy, lay at

Meenie's feet. And sometimes, it is true, a wild imagination would get

hold of him--a whimsical thing, that he laughed at: supposing that

life--the actual real life here at Inver-Mudal--were suddenly to become

a play, a poem, a romantic tale; and that Meenie was to fall in love

with him; and he to grow rich all at once; and the Stuarts of Glengask

to be quite complaisant: why, then, would it not be a fine thing to

bring all this collection of verses to Meenie, and say 'There, now, it

is not much; but it shows you that I have been thinking of you all

through these years?' Yes, it would be a very fine thing, in a romance.

But, as has been said, he was one not given to day-dreams; and he

accepted the facts of life with much equanimity; and when he had written

some lines about Meenie that he regarded with a little affection--as

suggesting, let us say, something of the glamour of her clear Highland

eyes, and the rose-sweetness of her nature, and the kindness of her

heart--and when it seemed rather a pity that she should never see

them--if only as a tribute to her gentleness offered by a perfectly

unbiassed spectator--he quickly reminded himself that it was not his

business to write verses but to trap foxes and train dogs and shoot

hoodie-crows. He was not vain of his rhymes--except where Meenie's name

came in. Besides, he was a very busy person at most seasons of the

year; and men, women, and children alike showed a considerable fondness

for him, so that his life was full of sympathies and interests; and

altogether he cannot be regarded, nor did he regard himself, as a

broken-hearted or blighted being. His temperament was essentially

joyous and healthy; the passing moment was enough; nothing pleased him

so much as to have a grouse, or a hare, or a ptarmigan, or a startled

hind appear within sure and easy range, and to say 'Well, go on. Take

your life with you. Rather a pleasant day this: why shouldn't you enjoy

it as well as I?'

However, on this blustering and brilliant morning he had not come all

the way up hither merely to get a brace of hares for Mrs. Murray, nor

yet to be a distant spectator of the salmon-fishing going on far below.

Under this big rock there was a considerable cavity, and right at the

back of that he had wedged in a wooden box lined with tin, and fitted

with a lid and a lock. It was useful in the autumn; he generally kept

in it a bottle of whisky and a few bottles of soda-water, lest any of

the gentlemen should find themselves thirsty on the way home from the

stalking. But on this occasion, when he got out the key and unlocked

the little chest, it was not any refreshment of that kind he was after.

He took out a copy-book--a cheap paper-covered thing such as is used in

juvenile schools in Scotland--and turned to the first page, which was

scrawled over with pencilled lines that had apparently been written in

time of rain, for there were plenty of smudges there. It had become a

habit of his that, when in these lonely rambles among the hills, he

found some further rhymes about Meenie come into his head, he would jot

them down in this copy-book, deposit it in the little chest, and

probably not see them again for weeks and weeks, when, as on the present

occasion, he would come with fresh eyes to see it there were any worth

or value in them. Not that he took such trouble with anything else.

His rhyming epistles to his friends, his praises of his terrier Harry,

his songs for the Inver-Mudal lasses to sing--these things were thrown

off anyhow, and had to take their chance. But his solitary

intercommunings away amid these alpine wastes were of a more serious

cast; insensibly they gathered dignity and repose from the very silence

and awfulness of the solitudes around; there was no idle and pastoral

singing here about roses in the lane. He regarded the blurred lines,

striving to think of them as having been written by somebody else:

_Through the long sad centuries Clebrig slept,_

_Nor a sound the silence broke,_

_Till a morning in Spring a strange new thing_

_Betrayed him and he awoke;_

_And he laughed, and his joyous laugh was heard_

_From Erribol far to Tongue;_

_And his granite veins deep down were stirred,_

_And the great old mountain grew young._

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

_And she sang so sweet and so clear,_

_That the sound of her voice made him see again_

_The dawn of the world appear;_

_And at night he spake to the listening stars_

_And charged them a guard to keep_

_On the hamlet of Inver-Mudal there_

_And the maid in her innocent sleep,_

_Till the years should go by; and they should see_

_Love Meenie take her stand_

_'Mong the maidens around the footstool of God--_

_She gentlest of all the band!_

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

'Another one for the little bookie that's never to be seen,' said he,

with a kind of laugh; for indeed he treated himself to a good deal of

satire, and would rather have blown his brains out than that the

neighbourhood should have known he was writing these verses about Meenie

Douglas.

'And hey, Harry, lad!' he called, as he locked the little cupboard

again, 'I'm thinking we must be picking up a hare now, if it's for soup

for the gentleman's dinner the night. So ye were bauld enough to face

an eagle? I doubt, if both his feet had been free, but ye might have

had a lift in the air, and seen the heavens and the earth spread out

below ye.'

He shouldered his gun and set out again--making his way towards some

rockier ground, where he very soon bagged the brace of hares he wanted.

He tied their legs together, slung them over his shoulder, and began to

descend the mountain again--usually keeping his eye on the minute black

speck on the loch, lest there might be occasion again for his telescope.

He took the two hares--they looked remarkably like cats, by the way, for

they were almost entirely white--into the inn, and threw them on to the

chair in the passage.

'There you are, Nelly, lass,' said he, as the fair-haired Highland maid

happened to go by.

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

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

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

Mr. Murray was a little, wiry, gray-haired, good-natured looking man,

who, when Ronald entered the parlour, was seated at the table, and

evidently puzzling his brains over a blank sheet of paper that lay

before him.

'Your sister Maggie wass here this morning,' the inn-keeper said--still

with his eyes fixed upon the paper--'and she wass saying that maybe

Meenie--Miss Douglas--would like to come with the others on Monday

night--ay, and maybe Mrs. Douglas herself too as well--but they would

hef to be asked. And Kott pless me, it is not an easy thing, if you hef

to write a letter, and that is more polite than asking--it is not an

easy thing, I am sure. Ronald,' he said, raising his eyes and turning

round, 'would you tek a message?'

'Where?' said Ronald--but he knew well enough, and was only seeking time

to make an excuse.

'To Mrs. Douglas and the young lass; and tell them we will be glad if

they will come with the others on Monday night--for the doctor is away

from home, and why should they be left by themselves? Will you tek the

message, Ronald?'

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

Mr. Murray.'

'But they know you so ferry well--and--and there will be no harm if they

come and see the young lads and lasses having a reel together--ay, and a

song too. And if Mrs. Douglas could not be bothered, it's you that

could bring the young lady--oh yes, I know ferry well--if you will ask

her, she will come.'

'I am sure no,' Ronald said hastily, and with an embarrassment he sought

in vain to conceal. 'If Miss Douglas cares to come at all, it will be

when you ask her. And why should ye write, man? Go down the road and

ask her yourself--I mean, ask Mrs. Douglas; it's as simple as simple.

What for should ye write a letter? Would ye send it through the post

too? That's ceremony for next-door neighbours!'

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

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

civil answer.'

Mr. Murray was left doubting. It was clear that the awful shadow of

Glengask and Orosay still dwelt over the doctor's household; and that

the innkeeper was not at all sure as to what Mrs. Douglas would say to

an invitation that she and her daughter Meenie--or Williamina, as the

mother called her--should be present at a merry-meeting of farm lads,

keepers, gillies, and kitchen wenches.

*CHAPTER VIII.*

*THE NEW YEAR'S FEAST.*

Loud and shrill in the empty barn arose the strains of the _Athole

March_, warning the young lasses to hasten with the adjustment of their

ribbons, and summoning the young lads about to look sharp and escort

them. The long and narrow table was prettily laid out; two candelabra

instead of one shed a flood of light on the white cover; the walls were

decorated with evergreens and with Meenie's resplendent paper blossoms;

the peats in the improvised fireplace burned merrily. And when the

company began to arrive, in twos and threes, some bashful and

hesitating, others merry and jocular, there was a little embarrassment

about the taking of places until Ronald laid down his pipes and set to

work to arrange them. The American gentleman had brought in Mrs. Murray

in state, and they were at the head of the table; while Ronald himself

took the foot, in order, as he said, to keep order--if he were

able--among the lasses who had mostly congregated there. Then the

general excitement and talking was hushed for a minute, while the

innkeeper said grace; and then the girls--farm wenches, some of them,

and Nelly, the pretty parlour-maid, and Finnuala, the cook's youngest

sister, who was but lately come from Uist and talked the quaintest

English, and Mr. Murray's two nieces from Tongue, and the other young

lasses about the inn--all of them became demure and proper in their

manner, for they were about to enjoy the unusual sensation of being

waited upon.

This, of course, was Ronald's doing. There had been a question as to

which of the maids were to bring in supper for so large a number; so he

addressed himself to the young fellows who were standing about.

'You lazy laddies,' he said, 'what are ye thinking o'? Here's a chance

for ye, if there's a pennyworth o' spunk among the lot o' ye. They

lasses there wait on ye the whole year long, and make the beds for ye,

and redd the house; I'm thinking ye might do worse than wait on them for

one night, and bring in the supper when they sit down. They canna do

both things; and the fun o' the night belongs to them or to nobody at

all.'

At first there was a little shamefaced reluctance--it was 'lasses'

work,' they said--until a great huge Highland tyke--a Ross-shire drover

who happened to be here on a visit--a man of about six feet four, with a

red beard big enough for a raven to build in, declared that he would

lend a hand, if no one else did; and forthwith brought his huge fist

down on the bar-room table to give emphasis to his words. There was some

suspicion that this unwonted gallantry was due to the fact that he had a

covetous eye on Jeannie, Donald Macrae's lass, who was a very superior

dairy-mistress, and was also heir-presumptive to her father's farmstead

and about a score of well-favoured cattle; but that was neither here nor

there; he was as good as his word; he organised the brigade, and led it;

and if he swallowed a stiff glass of whisky before setting out from the

kitchen for the barn, with a steaming plate of soup in each hand, that

was merely to steady his nerves and enable him to face the merriment of

the whole gang of those girls. And then when this red-bearded giant of

a Ganymede and his attendants had served every one, they fetched in

their own plates, and sat down; and time was allowed them; for the

evening was young yet, and no one in a hurry.

Now if Mr. Hodson had been rather doubtful lest his presence might

produce some little restraint, he was speedily reassured, to his own

great satisfaction, for he was really a most good-natured person and

anxious to be friendly with everybody. In the general fun and jollity

he was not even noticed; he could ask Mrs. Murray any questions he chose

without suspicion of being observant; the young lady next him--who was

Jeannie Macrae herself, and to whom he strove to be as gallant as might

be--was very winsome and gentle and shy, and spoke in a more Highland

fashion than he had heard yet; while otherwise he did not fare at all

badly at this rustic feast, for there were boiled fowls and roast hares

after the soup, and there was plenty of ale passed round, and tea for

those who wished it. Nay, on the contrary, he had rather to push

himself forward and assert himself ere he could get his proper share of

the work that was going on. He insisted upon carving for at least half

a dozen neighbours; he was most attentive to the pretty Highland girl

next him; and laughed heartily at Mrs. Murray's Scotch stories, which he

did not quite understand; and altogether entered into the spirit of the

evening. But there was no doubt it was at the other end of the table

that the fun was getting fast and furious; and just as little doubt that

Ronald the keeper was suffering considerably at the hands of those

ungrateful lasses for whom he had done so much. Like a prudent man, he

held his tongue and waited his opportunity; taking their teasing with

much good humour; and paying no heed to the other young fellows who were

urging him to face and silence the saucy creatures. And his opportunity

came in the most unexpected way. One of the girls, out of pure

mischief, and without the least notion that she would be overheard,

rapped lightly on the table, and said: 'Mr. Ronald Strang will now

favour us with a song.' To her amazement and horror there was an almost

instant silence; for an impression had travelled up the table that some

announcement was about to be made.

'What is it now? What are you about down there?' their host called to

them--and the silence, to her who had unwittingly caused it, was

terrible.

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

say.

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

'Sing ye a song, ye limmer, ere ye're through with your supper?' Ronald

said sharply. 'I'd make ye sing yourself--with a leather strap--if I

had my will o' ye.'

But this was not heard up the table.

'Very well, then, Ronald,' the innkeeper cried, graciously. 'Come away

with it now. There is no one at all can touch you at that.'

'Oh, do not ask him,' the pretty Nelly said--apparently addressing the

company, but keeping her cruel eyes on him. 'Do not ask Ronald to sing.

Ronald is such a shy lad.'

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

'Very well, then,' said he, 'I'll sing ye a song--and let's have a

chorus, lads.'

Now in Sutherlandshire, as in many other parts of the Highlands, the

chief object of singing in company is to establish a chorus; and the

audience, no matter whether they have heard the air or not, so soon as

it begins, proceed to beat time with hand and heel, forming a kind of

accompanying tramp, as it were; so that by the time the end of the first

verse is reached, if they have not quite caught the tune, at least they

can make some kind of rhythmic noise with the refrain. And on this

occasion, if the words were new--and Ronald, on evil intent, took care

to pronounce them clearly--the air was sufficiently like 'Jenny dang the

Weaver' for the general chorus to come in, in not more than half a dozen

keys. This was what Ronald sang--and he sang it in that resonant tenor

of his, and in a rollicking fashion--just as if it were an impromptu,

and not a weapon that he had carefully forged long ago, and hidden away

to serve some such chance as the present:

_O lasses, lasses, gang your ways,_

_And dust the house, or wash the claes,_

_Ye put me in a kind o' blaze--_

_Ye'll break my heart among ye!_

The girls rather hung their heads--the imputation that they were all

setting their caps at a modest youth who wanted to have nothing to do

with them was scarcely what they expected. But the lads had struck the

tune somehow; and there was a roaring chorus, twice repeated, with heavy

boots marking the time--

_Ye'll break my heart among ye!_

And then the singer proceeded--gravely--

_At kirk or market, morn or e'en,_

_The like o' them was never seen,_

_For each is kind, and each a queen;--_

_Ye'll break my heart among ye!_

And again came the roaring chorus from the delighted lads--

_Ye'll break my heart among ye!_

There was but one more verse--

_There's that one dark, and that one fair,_

_And yon has wealth o' yellow hair;_

_Gang hame, gang hame--I can nae mair--_

_Ye'll break my heart among ye!_

Yellow hair? The allusion was so obvious that the pretty Nelly blushed

scarlet--all the more visibly because of her fair complexion; and when

the thunder of the thrice-repeated refrain had ceased, she leant forward

and said to him in a low voice, but with much terrible meaning--

'My lad, when I get you by yourself, I'll give it to you!'

They had nearly finished supper by this time; but ere they had the decks

cleared for action, there was a formal ceremony to be gone through. The

host produced his _quaich_--a small cup of horn, with a handle on each

side; and likewise a bottle of whisky; and as one guest after another

took hold of the quaich with the thumb and forefinger of each hand, the

innkeeper filled the small cup with whisky, which had then to be drank

to some more or less appropriate toast. These were in Gaelic for the

most part--'_To the goodman of the inn_'; '_To the young girls that are

kind, and old wives that keep a clean house_'; '_Good health; and good

luck in finding things washed ashore_,' and so forth--and when it came

to Mr. Hodson's turn, he would have a try at the Gaelic too.

'I think I can wrestle with it, if you give me an easy one,' he

remarked, as he took the quaich between his fingers and held it till it

was filled.

'Oh no, sir, do not trouble about the Gaelic,' said his pretty neighbour

Jeannie--blushing very much, for there was comparative silence at the

time.

'But I want to have my turn. If it's anything a white man can do, I can

do it.'

'Say _air do shlainte_--that is, your good health,' said Jeannie,

blushing more furiously than ever.

He carefully balanced the cup in his hands, gravely turned towards his

hostess, bowed to her, repeated the magic words with a very fair accent

indeed, and drained off the whisky--amid the general applause; though

none of them suspected that the swallowing of the whisky was to him a

much more severe task than the pronunciation of the Gaelic. And then it

came to Ronald's turn.

'Oh no, Mr. Murray,' said the slim-waisted Nelly, who had recovered from

her confusion, and whose eyes were now as full of mischief as ever, 'do

not ask Ronald to say anything in the Gaelic; he is ashamed to hear

himself speak. It is six years and more he has been trying to say "a

young calf," and he cannot do it yet.'

'And besides, he's thinking of the lass he left behind in the Lothians,'

said her neighbour.

'And they're all black-haired girls there,' continued the fair-haired

Nelly. 'Ronald, drink "_mo nighean dubh_."'

He fixed his eyes on her steadily, and said: '_Tir nam beann, nan

gleann, s'nan gaisgeach;_[#] and may all the saucy jades in Sutherland

find a husband to keep them in order ere the year be out.'

[#] The land of hills and glens and heroes.

And now two or three of the lasses rose to clear the table; for the

red-bearded drover and his brigade had not the skill to do that; and the

men lit their pipes; and there was a good deal of joyous _schwaermerei_.

In the midst of it all there was a rapping of spoons and knuckles at the

upper end of the table; and it was clear, from the importance of his

look, that Mr. Murray himself was about to favour the company--so that a

general silence ensued. And very well indeed did the host of the

evening sing--in a shrill, high-pitched voice, it is true, but still

with such a multitude of small flourishes and quavers and grace notes as

showed he had once been proud enough of his voice in the days gone by.

'Scotland yet' he sang; and there was a universal rush at the chorus--

_'And trow ye as I sing, my lads,_

_The burden o't shall be,_

_Auld Scotland's howes, and Scotland's knowes,_

_And Scotland's hills for me,_

_I'll drink a cup to Scotland yet,_

_Wi' a' the honours three.'_

And was their American friend to be excluded?--not if he knew it. He

could make a noise as well as any; and he waved the quaich--which had

wandered back to him--round his head; and strident enough was his voice

with

_I'll drink a cup to Scotland yet,_

_Wi' a' the honours three.'_

'I feel half a Scotchman already,' said he gaily to his hostess.

'Indeed, sir, I wish you were altogether one,' she said in her gentle

way. 'I am sure I think you would look a little better in health if you

lived in this country.'

'But I don't look so ill, do I?' said he--rather disappointed; for he

had been striving to be hilarious, and had twice drank the contents of

the quaich, out of pure friendliness.

'Well, no, sir,' said Mrs. Murray politely, 'not more than most of them

I hef seen from your country; but surely it cannot be so healthy as

other places; the young ladies are so thin and delicate-looking

whatever; many a one I would like to hef kept here for a while--for more

friendly young ladies I never met with anywhere--just to see what the

mountain air and the sweet milk would do for her.'

'Well, then, Mrs. Murray, you will have the chance of trying your

doctoring on my daughter when she comes up here a few weeks hence; but I

think you won't find much of the invalid about her--it's my belief she

could give twenty pounds to any girl I know of in a go-as-you-please

race across the stiffest ground anywhere. There's not much the matter

with my Carry, if she'd only not spend the whole day in those stores in

Regent Street. Well, that will be over when she come here; I should

think it'll make her stare some, if she wants to buy a veil or a pair of

gloves.'

But the girls at the foot of the table had been teasing Ronald to sing

something; silence was forthwith procured; and presently--for he was

very good natured, and sang whenever he was asked--the clear and

penetrating tenor voice was ringing along the rafters:

_'The news frae Moidart cam' yestreen,_

_Will soon gar many ferlie,[#]_

_For ships o' war hae just come in_

_And landed royal Charlie.'_

[#] 'Ferlie,' wonder.

It was a well-known song, with a resounding chorus:

_'Come through the heather, around him gather,_

_Ye're a' the welcomer early;_

_Around him cling wi' a' your kin,_

_For wha'll be king but Charlie?'_

Nay, was not this the right popular kind of song--to have two choruses

instead of one?--

_'Come through the heather, around him gather,_

_Come Ronald, and Donald, come a'thegither_

_And claim your rightfu' lawfu' king,_

_For who'll be king but Charlie?'_

This song gave great satisfaction; for they had all taken part in the

chorus; and they were pleased with the melodious result. And then the

lasses were at him again:

'Ronald, sing "Doon the burn, Davie lad."'

'Ronald, will you not give us "Logan Water" now?'

'Ronald, "Auld Joe Nicholson's Bonnie Nannie" or "My Peggy is a young

thing" whichever you like best yourself.'

'No, no,' said the pretty Nelly, 'ask him to sing, "When the kye come

hame," and he will be thinking of the black-haired lass he left in the

Lothians.'

'Gae wa', gae wa',' said he, rising and shaking himself free from them.

'I ken what'll put other things into your heads--or into your heels,

rather.'

He picked up his pipes, which had been left in a corner, threw the

drones over his shoulder, and marched to the upper end of the barn; then

there was a preliminary groan or two, and presently the chanter broke

away into a lively reel tune. The effect of this signal, as it might be

called, was magical; every one at once divined what was needed; and the

next moment they were all helping to get the long table separated into

its component parts and carried out into the dark. There was a cross

table left at the upper end, by the peat-fire, for the elderly people

and the spectators to sit at, if they chose; the younger folk had wooden

forms at the lower end; but the truth is that they were so eager not to

have any of the inspiriting music thrown away that several sets were

immediately formed, and off they went to the brisk strains of _Miss

Jenny Gordon's Favourite_--intertwisting deftly, setting to partners

again, fingers and thumbs snapped in the air, every lad amongst them

showing off his best steps, and ringing whoops sent up to the rafters as

the reel broke off again into a quick strathspey. It was wild and

barbaric, no doubt; but there was a kind of rhythmic poetry in it too;

Ronald grew prouder and prouder of the fire that he could infuse into

this tempestuous and yet methodical crowd; the whoops became yells; and

if the red-bearded drover, dancing opposite the slim-figured Nelly,

would challenge her to do her best, and could himself perform some

remarkable steps and shakes, well, Nelly was not ashamed to raise her

gown an inch or two just to show him that he was not dancing with a

flat-footed creature, but that she had swift toes and graceful ankles to

compare with any. And then again they would trip off into the figure 8,

swinging round with arms interlocked; and again roof and rafter would

'dirl' with the triumphant shouts of the men. Then came the long

wailing monition from the pipes; the sounds died down; panting and

laughing and rosy-cheeked the lasses were led to the benches by their

partners; and a general halt was called.

Little Maggie stole up to her brother.

'I'm going home now, Ronald,' she said.

'Very well,' he said. 'Mind you go to bed as soon as ye get in.

Good-night, lass.'

'Good-night, Ronald.'

She was going away, when he said to her--

'Maggie, do ye think that Miss Douglas is not coming along to see the

dancing? I thought she would do that if she would rather no come to the

supper.'

In truth he had had his eye on the door all the time he was playing

_Miss Jenny Gordon's Favourite_.

'I am sure if she stays away,' the little Maggie said, 'it is not her

own doing. Meenie wanted to come. It is very hard that everybody

should be at the party and not Meenie.'

'Well, well, good-night, lass,' said he; for the young folk were

choosing their partners again, and the pipes were wanted. Soon there

was another reel going on, as fast and furious as before.

At the end of this reel--Meenie had not appeared, by the way, and Ronald

concluded that she was not to be allowed to look on at the dancing--the

yellow-haired Nelly came up to the top of the room, and addressed Mrs.

Murray in the Gaelic; but as she finished up with the word _quadrille_,

and as she directed one modest little glance towards Mr. Hodson, that

amiable but astute onlooker naturally inferred that he was somehow

concerned in this speech. Mrs. Murray laughed.

'Well, sir, the girls are asking if you would not like to have a dance

too; and they could have a quadrille.'

'I've no cause to brag about my dancing,' he said good-humouredly, 'but

if Miss Nelly will see me through, I dare say we'll manage somehow.

Will you excuse my ignorance?'

Now the tall and slender Highland maid had not in any way bargained for

this--it was merely friendliness that had prompted her proposal; but she

could not well refuse; and soon one or two sets were formed; and a young

lad called Munro, from Lairg, who had brought his fiddle with him for

this great occasion, proceeded to tune up. The quadrille, when it came

off, was performed with more of vigour than science; there was no

ignominious shirking of steps--no idle and languid walking--but a

thorough and resolute flinging about, as the somewhat bewildered Mr.

Hodson speedily discovered. However, he did his part gallantly, and was

now grown so gay that when, at the end of the dance, he inquired of the

fair Nelly whether she would like to have any little refreshment, and

when she mildly suggested a little water, and offered to go for it

herself, he would hear of no such thing. No, no; he went and got some

soda-water, and declared that it was much more wholesome with a little

whisky in it; and had some himself also. Gay and gallant?--why,

certainly. He threw off thirty years of his life; he forgot that this

was the young person who would be waiting at table after his daughter

Carry came hither: he would have danced another quadrille with her; and

felt almost jealous when a young fellow came up to claim her for the

_Highland Schottische_--thus sending him back to the society of Mrs.

Murray. And it was not until he had sate down that he remembered he had

suggested to his daughter the training of this pretty Highland girl for

the position of maid and travelling companion. But what of that? If all

men were born equal, so were women; and he declared to himself that any

day he would rather converse with Nelly the pretty parlour-maid than

(supposing him to have the chance) with Her Illustrious Highness the

Princess of Pfalzgrafweiler-Gunzenhausen.

In the meantime Ronald, his pipes not being then needed, had wandered

out into the cold night-air. There were some stars visible, but they

shed no great light; the world lay black enough all around. He went

idly and dreamily along the road--the sounds in the barn growing fainter

and fainter--until he reached the plateau where his own cottage stood.

There was no light in it anywhere; doubtless Maggie had at once gone to

bed, as she had been bid. And then he wandered on again--walking a

little more quietly--until he reached the doctor's house. Here all the

lights were out but one; there was a red glow in that solitary window;

and he knew that that was Meenie's room. Surely she could not be

sitting up and listening?--even the skirl of the pipes could scarcely be

heard so far; and her window was closed. Reading, perhaps? He knew so

many of her favourites--'The Burial March of Dundee,' 'Jeannie

Morrison,' 'Bonny Kilmeny,' 'Christabel,' the 'Hymn before Sunrise in

the Valley of Chamounix,' and others of a similar noble or mystical or

tender kind; and perhaps, after all, these were more in consonance with

the gentle dignity and rose-sweetness of her mind and nature than the

gambols of a lot of farm-lads and wenches? He walked on to the bridge,

and sate down there for a while, in the dark and the silence; he could

hear the Mudal Water rippling by, but could see nothing. And when he

passed along the road again, the light in the small red-blinded window

was gone; Meenie was away in the world of dreams and phantoms--and he

wondered if the people there knew who this was who had come amongst

them, with her wondering eyes and sweet ways.

He went back to the barn, and resumed his pipe-playing with all his

wonted vigour--waking up the whole thing, as it were; but nothing could

induce him to allow one or other of the lads to be his substitute, so

that he might go and choose a partner for one of the reels. He would

not dance; he said his business was to keep the merry-making going. And

he and they did keep it going till between five and six in the morning,

when all hands were piped for the singing of 'Auld Lang Syne:' and

thereafter there was a general dispersal, candles going this way and

that through the blackness like so many will-o'-the-wisps; and the last

good-nights at length sank into silence--a silence as profound and

hushed as that that lay over the unseen heights of Clebrig and the dark

and still lake below.

*CHAPTER IX.*

*ENTICEMENTS.*

At about eleven o'clock on the same morning Miss Douglas was standing at

the window of her own little room looking rather absently at the

familiar wintry scene without, and occasionally turning to a letter that

she held in her hand, and that she had apparently just then written.

Presently, however, her face brightened. There was a faint sound in the

distance as of some one singing; no doubt that was Ronald; he would be

coming along the road with the dogs, and if she were in any difficulty

he would be the one to help. So she waited for a second or two, hoping

to be able to signal him to stop; and the next minute he was in sight,

walking briskly with his long and steady stride, the small terrier at

his heels, the other dogs--some handsome Gordon setters, a brace of

pointers, and a big brown retriever--ranging farther afield.

But why was it, she asked herself, that whenever he drew near her

father's cottage he invariably ceased his singing? Elsewhere, as well

she knew, he beguiled the tedium of these lonely roads with an almost

constant succession of songs and snatches of songs; but here he

invariably became mute. And why did he not raise his eyes to the

window--where she was waiting to give him a friendly wave of the hand,

or even an invitation to stop and come within-doors for a minute or two?

No, on he went with that long stride of his, addressing a word now and

again to one or other of the dogs, and apparently thinking of nothing

else. So, as there was nothing for it now but to go out and intercept

him on his return, she proceeded to put on her ulster and a

close-fitting deerstalker's cap; and thus fortified against the gusty

north wind that was driving clouds and sunshine across the loch and

along the slopes of Clebrig, she left the cottage, and followed the road

that he had taken.

As it turned out, she had not far to go; for she saw that he was now

seated on the parapet of the little bridge spanning the Mudal Water, and

no doubt he was cutting tobacco for his pipe. When she drew near, he

rose; when she drew nearer, he put his pipe in his waistcoat pocket.

'Good-morning, Ronald!' she cried, and the pretty fresh-tinted face

smiled on him, and the clear gray-blue Highland eyes regarded him in the

most frank and friendly way, and without any trace whatever of maiden

bashfulness.

'Good-morning, Miss Douglas,' said he; he was far more shy than she was.

'What a stupid thing happened this morning,' said she. 'When I heard

that the American gentleman was going south, I wanted to tell the driver

to bring the children from Crask with him as he came back in the

evening; and I sent Elizabeth round to the inn to tell him that; and

then--what do you think!--they had started away half an hour before

there was any need. But now I have written a letter to the Crask

people, asking them to stop the waggonette as it comes back in the

afternoon, and telling them that we will make the children very

comfortable here for the night; and if only I could get it sent to Crask

everything would be arranged. And do you think now you could get one of

the young lads to take it to Crask if I gave him a shilling?'

She took out her purse, and selected a shilling from the very slender

store of coins there.

'It is not much for so long a walk,' she said, rather doubtfully.

'Eight miles there and eight back--is it enough, do you think?'

'Oh, I'll get the letter sent for ye, Miss Douglas, easily enough,' said

he--and indeed he had already taken it from her hand.

Then she offered him the shilling, but with a little gesture he refused

it. And then--for there flashed upon her mind a sudden suspicion that

perhaps he might choose to walk all that way himself just to please her

(indeed, he had done things like that before)--she became greatly

embarrassed.

'Give me the letter, Ronald,' said she, 'and I will find some one

myself. You are going away now with the dogs.'

'Oh no,' said he, 'I will see that the Crask folk get your message.'

'And the money to pay the lad?' said she timidly.

'Dinna bother your head wi' that,' he answered. 'There's enough money

scattered about the place just now--the American gentleman was

free-handed this morning. Ay, and there's something I've got for you.'

'For me?' she said, with her eyes opening somewhat.

'Well,' said he (and very glad he was to have the letter safe and sound

in his possession), 'I was telling him about the children's party

to-morrow night; and he's a friendly kind o' man, that; he said he would

like to have been at it, if he could have stayed; and I'm sure he would

have got on wi' them well enough, for he's a friendly kind o' man, as I

say. Well, then, I couldna tell him the exact number o' the bairns; but

no matter what number, each one o' them is to find sevenpence under the

teacup--that's a penny for each fish he got. Ay, he's a shrewd-headed

fellow, too; for says he "I suppose, now, the old people will be for

having the children save up the sixpence, so at least they'll have the

penny to spend;" and he was curious even to find out where the bairns in

a place like this got their toys, or if sweeties ever came their way.

"It's little enough of either o' them," I said to him, "they see, except

when Miss Douglas has been to Lairg or Tongue;" and he was very anxious

to make your acquaintance, I may tell ye, but he said he would wait till

his daughter came with him the next time. I'm thinking the bairns will

be pleased to find a little packet of money in the saucers; and it's not

too much for a man to pay for the luck o' getting seven salmon in the

middle of January--for who could have expected that?'

And then Meenie laughed.

'It's little you know, Ronald, what is in store for you to-morrow night.

It will be the hardest night's work you ever undertook in your life.'

'I'm not afraid o't,' he answered simply.

'But you do not know yet.'

She opened her ulster and from an inside pocket produced the formidable

document that she had shown to Ronald's sister; and then she buttoned

the long garment again, and contentedly sate herself down on the low

stone parapet, the programme in her hand. And now all trace of

embarrassment was fled from her; and when she spoke to him, or smiled,

those clear frank eyes of hers looked straight into his, fearing

nothing, but only expecting a welcome. She did not, as he did,

continually remember that she was Miss Douglas, the doctor's daughter,

and he merely a smart young deerstalker. To her he was simply

Ronald--the Ronald that every one knew and liked; who had a kind of

masterful way throughout this neighbourhood, and was arbiter in all

matters of public concern; but who, nevertheless, was of such amazing

good nature that there was no trouble he would not undertake to gratify

her slightest wish. And as he was so friendly and obliging towards her,

she made no doubt he was so to others; and that would account for his

great popularity, she considered; and she thought it was very lucky for

this remote little hamlet that it held within it one who was capable of

producing so much good feeling, and keeping the social atmosphere sweet

and sound.

As for him, he met this perfect friendship of hers with a studied

respect. Always, if it was on the one side 'Ronald,' on the other it

was 'Miss Douglas.' Why, her very costume was a bar to more familiar

relations. At this moment, as she sate on the stone parapet of the

bridge, looking down at the document before her, and as he stood at a

little distance, timidly awaiting what she had to say, it occurred to

him again, as it had occurred before, that no matter what dress it was,

each one seemed to become her better than any other. What was there

particular in a tight-fitting gray ulster and a deerstalker's cap? and

yet there was grace there, and style, and a nameless charm. If one of

the lasses at the inn, now, were sent on an errand on one of these wild

and blustering mornings, and got her hair blown about, she came back

looking untidy; but if Miss Douglas had her hair blown about, so that

bits and curls of it got free from the cap or the velvet hat, and hung

lightly about her forehead or her ears or her neck, it was a greater

witchery than ever. Then everything seemed to fit her so well and so

easily, and to be so simple; and always leaving her--however it was so

managed--perfect freedom of movement, so that she could swing a child on

to her shoulder, or run after a truant, or leap from bank to bank of a

burn without disturbing in the least that constant symmetry and

neatness. To Ronald it was all a wonder; and there was a still further

wonder always seeming to accompany her and surround her. Why was it

that the bleakest winter day, on these desolate Sutherland moors,

suddenly grew filled with light when he chanced to see a well-known

figure away along the road--the world changing into a joyful thing, as

if the summer were already come, and the larks singing in the blue? And

when she spoke to him, there was a kind of music in the air; and when

she laughed--why, Clebrig and Ben Loyal and the whispering Mudal Water

seemed all to be listening and all to be glad that she was happy and

pleased. She was the only one, other than himself, that the faithful

Harry would follow; and he would go with her wherever she went, so long

as she gave him an occasional word of encouragement.

'Will I read you the programme, Ronald?' said she, with just a trace of

mischief in the gray-blue eyes. 'I'm sure you ought to hear what has to

be done, for you are to be in the chair, you know.'

'Me?' said he, in astonishment. 'I never tried such a thing in my

life.'

'Oh yes,' she said cheerfully. 'They tell me you are always at the head

of the merry-makings: and is not this a simple thing? And besides, I do

not want any other grown people--I do not want Mr. Murray--he is a very

nice man--but he would be making jokes for the grown-up people all the

time. I want nobody but you and Maggie and myself besides the children,

and we will manage it very well, I am sure.'

There was a touch of flattery in the proposal.

'Indeed, yes,' said he at once. 'We will manage well enough, if ye wish

it that way.'

'Very well, then,' said she, turning with a practical air to the

programme. 'We begin with singing Old Hundred, and then the children

will have tea and cake--and the sixpence and the penny. And then there

is to be an address by the Chairman--that's you, Ronald.'

'Bless me, lassie!' he was startled into saying; and then he stammered

an apology, and sought safety in a vehement protest against the fancy

that he could make a speech--about anything whatever.

'Well, that is strange,' said Meenie looking at him, and rather inclined

to laugh at his perplexity. 'It is a strange thing if you cannot make a

little speech to them; for I have to make one--at the end. See, there

is my name.'

He scarcely glanced at the programme.

'And what have you to speak about, Miss Douglas?'

She laughed.

'About you.'

'About me?' he said, rather aghast.

'It is a vote of thanks to the chairman--and easy enough it will be, I

am sure. For I have only to say about you what I hear every one say

about you; and that will be simple enough.'

The open sincerity of her friendship--and even of her marked liking for

him--was so apparent that for a second or so he was rather bewildered.

But he was not the kind of man to misconstrue frankness; he knew that

was part of herself; she was too generous, too much inclined to think

well of everybody; and the main point to which he had to confine himself

was this, that if she, out of her good-nature, could address a few words

to those children--about him or any other creature or object in the

world--it certainly behoved him to do his best also, although he had

never tried anything of the kind before. And then a sudden fancy struck

him; and his eyes brightened eagerly. 'Oh yes, yes,' he said, 'I will

find something to say. I would make a bad hand at a sermon; but the

bairns have enough o' that at times; I dare say we'll find something for

them o' another kind--and they'll no be sorry if it's short. I'm

thinking I can find something that'll please them.'

And what was this that was in his head?--what but the toast of the

Mistress of the Feast! If Meenie had but known, she would doubtless

have protested against the introduction of any mutual admiration society

into the modest hamlet of Inver-Mudal; but at that moment she was still

scanning the programme.

'Now you know, Ronald,' she said, 'it is to be all quiet and private;

and that is why the grown-up people are to be kept out except ourselves.

Well, then, after they have had raisins handed round, you are to sing

"My love she's but a lassie yet"--that is a compliment to the little

ones; and then I will read them something; and then you are to sing "O

dinna cross the burn, Willie"--I have put down no songs that I have not

heard you sing. And then if you would play them "Lord Breadalbane's

March" on the pipes----'

She looked up again, with an air of apology.

'Do you think I am asking too much from you, Ronald?' she said.

'Indeed not a bit,' said he promptly. 'I will play or sing for them all

the night long, if you want; and I'm sure it's much better we should do

it all ourselves, instead o' having a lot o' grown-up folk to make the

bairns shy.'

'It is not the chairman anyway, that will make them shy--if what they

say themselves is true,' said Meenie very prettily; and she folded up

her programme and put it in her pocket again.

She rose; and he whistled in the dogs, as if he would return to the

village.

'I thought you were taking them for a run,' said she.

'Oh, they have been scampering about; I will go back now.'

Nor did it occur to her for a moment that she would rather not walk back

to the door of her mother's house with him. On the contrary, if she had

been able to attract his notice when he passed, she would have gone down

to the little garden-gate, and had this conversation with him in view of

all the windows. If she wanted him to do anything for her, she never

thought twice about going along to his cottage and knocking at the door;

or she would, in the event of his not being there, go on to the inn and

ask if any one had seen Ronald about. And so on this occasion she went

along the road with him in much good-humour; praising the dogs, hoping

the weather would continue fine, and altogether in high spirits over her

plans for the morrow.

However, they were not to part quite so pleasantly. At the small

garden-gate, and evidently awaiting them, stood Mrs. Douglas; and Ronald

guessed that she was in no very good temper. In truth, she seldom was.

She was a doll-like little woman, rather pretty, with cold clear blue

eyes, fresh-coloured cheeks, and quite silver-white hair, which was

carefully curled and braided--a pretty little old lady, and one to be

petted and made much of, if only she had had a little more amiability of

disposition. But she was a disappointed woman. Her big good-natured

husband had never fulfilled the promise of his early years, when, in a

fit of romance, she married the penniless medical student whom she had

met in Edinburgh. He was not disappointed at all; his life suited him

well enough; he was excessively fond of his daughter Meenie, and wanted

no other companion when she was about; after the hard work of making a

round of professional visits in that wild district, the quiet and

comfort and neatness of the little cottage at Inver-Mudal were all that

he required. But it was far otherwise with the once ambitious little

woman whom he had married. The shadow of the dignity of the Stuarts of

Glengask still dwelt over her; and it vexed her that she had nothing

with which to overawe the neighbours or to convince the passing stranger

of her importance. Perhaps if she had been of commanding figure, that

might have helped her, however poor her circumstances might be; as it

was, being but five feet two inches in height--and rather toy-like

withal--everything seemed against her. It was but little use her

endeavouring to assume a majestic manner when her appearance was somehow

suggestive of a glass case; and the sharpness of her tongue, which was

considerable, seemed to be but little heeded even in her own house, for

both her husband and her daughter were persons of an easy good humour,

and rather inclined to pet her in spite of herself.

'Good morning, Mrs. Douglas,' Ronald said respectfully, and he raised

his cap as they drew near.

'Good morning, Mr. Strang,' she said, with much precision, and scarcely

glancing at him.

She turned to Meenie.

'Williamina, how often have I told you to shut the gate after you when

you go out?' she said sharply. 'Here has the cow been in again.'

'It cannot do much harm at this time of the year,' Meenie said lightly.

'I suppose if I ask you to shut the gate that is enough? Where have you

been? Idling, I suppose. Have you written to Lady Stuart to thank her

for the Birthday Book?'

It seemed to Ronald (who wished to get away, but could scarcely leave

without some civil word of parting) that she referred to Lady Stuart in

an unmistakably clear tone. She appeared to take no notice of Ronald's

presence, but she allowed him to hear that there was such a person as

Lady Stuart in existence.

'Why, mother, it only came yesterday, and I haven't looked over it yet,'

Meenie said.

'I think when her ladyship sends you a present,' observed the little

woman, with severe dignity, 'the least you can do is to write and thank

her at once. There are many who would be glad of the chance. Go in and

write the letter now.'

'Very well, mother,' said Meenie, with perfect equanimity; and then she

called 'Good morning, Ronald!' and went indoors.

What was he to do to pacify this imperious little dame? As a gamekeeper,

he knew but the one way.

'Would a hare or two, or a brace of ptarmigan be of any use to you, Mrs.

Douglas?' said he.

'Indeed,' she answered, with much dignity, 'we have not had much game of

any kind of late, for at Glengask they do not shoot any of the deer

after Christmas.'

This intimation that her cousin, Sir Alexander, was the owner of a

deer-forest might have succeeded with anybody else. But alas! this

young man was a keeper, and very well he knew that there was no forest

at all at Glengask, though occasionally in October they might come

across a stag that had been driven forth from the herd, or they might

find two or three strayed hinds in the woods later on; while, if Mrs.

Douglas had but even one haunch sent her in the year--say at

Christmas--he considered she got a very fair share of whatever venison

was going at Glengask. But of course he said nothing of all this.

'Oh, very well,' said he, 'I'm thinking o' getting two or three o' the

lads to go up the hill for a hare-drive one o' these days. The hares

'll be the better o' some thinning down--on one or two o' the far tops;

and then again, when we've got them it's no use sending them

south--they're no worth the carriage. So if ye will take a few o' them,

I'm sure you're very welcome. Good morning, ma'am.'

'Good morning,' said she, a little stiffly, and she turned and walked

towards the cottage.

As for him, he strode homeward with right goodwill; for Meenie's letter

was in his pocket; and he had forthwith to make his way to

Crask--preferring not to place any commission of hers in alien hands.

He got the dogs kennelled up--all except the little terrier; he slung

his telescope over his shoulder, and took a stick in his hand. 'Come

along, Harry, lad, ye'll see your friends at Crask ere dinner time, and

if ye're well-behaved ye'll come home in the waggonette along wi' the

bairns.'

It was a brisk and breezy morning; the keen north wind was fortunately

behind him; and soon he was swinging along through the desolate

solitudes of Strath Terry, his footfall on the road the only sound in

the universal stillness. And yet not the only sound, for sometimes he

conversed with Harry, and sometimes he sent his clear tenor voice

ringing over the wide moorland, and startling here or there a sheep, the

solitary occupant of these wilds. For no longer had he to propitiate

that domineering little dame; and the awful shadow of Glengask was as

nothing to him; the American, with his unsettling notions, had departed;

here he was at home, his own master, free in mind, and with the best of

all companions trotting placidly at his heels. No wonder his voice rang

loud and clear and contented:--

_'"'Tis not beneath the burgonet,_

_Nor yet beneath the crown,_

_'Tis not on couch of velvet,_

_Nor yet on bed of down."_

Harry, lad, do ye see that hoodie? Was there ever such impudence? I

could maist kill him with a stone. But I'll come along and pay a visit

to the gentleman ere the month's much older:--

_"'Tis beneath the spreading birch,_

_In the dell without a name,_

_Wi' a bonnie, bonnie lassie,_

_When the kye come hame."_

What think ye o' that now?--for we'll have to do our best to-morrow

night to please the bairns. Ah, you wise wee deevil!--catch you

drinking out o' a puddle when ye see any running water near.

_"When the kye come hame, when the kye come hame,_

_Twixt the gloaming and the mirk, when the kye come hame."_

*CHAPTER X.*

*HIGH FESTIVAL.*

A children's tea-party in a Highland barn sounds a trivial sort of

affair; and, as a spectacle, would doubtless suffer in contrast with a

fancy-dress ball in Kensington or with a State concert at Buckingham

Palace. But human nature is the important thing, after all, no matter

what the surroundings may be; and if one considers what the ordinary

life of these children was--the dull monotony of it in those far and

bleak solitudes; their ignorance of pantomime transformation scenes;

their lack of elaborately illustrated fairy tales, and similar aids to

the imagination enjoyed by more fortunate young people elsewhere--it was

surely an interesting kind of project to bring these bairns away from

the homely farm or the keeper's cottage, in the depth of mid-winter, and

to march them through the blackness of a January evening into a suddenly

opening wonderland of splendour and colour and festivity. They were not

likely to remember that this was but a barn--this beautiful place, with

its blazing candelabra, and its devices of evergreens and great white

and red roses, and the long table sumptuously set forth, and each guest

sitting down, finding himself or herself a capitalist to the extent of

sevenpence. And so warm and comfortable the lofty building was; and so

brilliant and luminous with those circles of candles; and the loud

strains of the pipes echoing through it--giving them a welcome just as

if they were grown-up people: no wonder they stared mostly in silence at

first, and seemed awestruck, and perhaps were in doubt whether this

might not be some Cinderella kind of feast, that they might suddenly be

snatched away from--and sent back again through the cold and the night

to the far and silent cottage in the glen. But this feeling soon wore

off; for it was no mystical fairy--though she seemed more beautiful and

gracious, and more richly attired than any fairy they had ever dreamed

about--who went swiftly here and there and everywhere, arranging their

seats for them, laughing and talking with them, forgetting not one of

their names, and as busy and merry and high-spirited as so great an

occasion obviously demanded.

Moreover, is it not in these early years that ideals are unconsciously

being formed--from such experiences as are nearest?--ideals that in

after-life may become standards of conduct and aims. They had never

seen any one so gentle-mannered as this young lady who was at once their

hostess and the little mother of them all, nor any one so dignified and

yet so simple and good-humoured and kind. They could not but observe

with what marked respect Ronald Strang (a most important person in their

eyes) treated her--insisting on her changing places with him, lest she

should be in a draught when the door was opened; and not allowing her to

touch the teapots that came hot and hot from the kitchen, lest she

should burn her fingers; he pouring out the tea himself, and rather

clumsily too. And if their ideal of sweet and gracious womanhood

(supposing it to be forming in their heads) was of but a prospective

advantage, was there not something of a more immediate value to them in

thus being allowed to look on one who was so far superior to the

ordinary human creatures they saw around them? She formed an easy key

to the few imaginative stories they were familiar with. Cinderella, for

example: when they read how she fascinated the prince at the ball, and

won all hearts and charmed all eyes, they could think of Miss Douglas,

and eagerly understand. The Queen of Sheba, when she came in all her

splendour: how were these shepherds' and keepers' and crofters' children

to form any notion of her appearance but by regarding Miss Douglas in

this beautiful and graceful attire of hers? In point of fact, her gown

was but of plain black silk; but there was something about the manner of

her wearing it that had an indefinable charm; and then she had a

singularly neat collar and a pretty ribbon round her neck; and there

were slender silver things gleaming at her wrists from time to time.

Indeed, there was no saying for how many heroines of history or fiction

Miss Meenie Douglas had unconsciously to herself to do duty--in the

solitary communings of a summer day's herding, or during the dreary

hours in which these hapless little people were shut up in some small,

close, overcrowded parish church, supposing that they lived anywhere

within half a dozen miles of such a building: now she would be Joan of

Arc, or perhaps Queen Esther that was so surpassing beautiful, or Lord

Ullin's daughter that was drowned within sight of Ulva's shores. And

was it not sufficiently strange that the same magical creature, who

represented to them everything that was noble and beautiful and refined

and queen-like, should now be moving about amongst them, cutting cake

for them, laughing, joking, patting this one or that on the shoulder,

and apparently quite delighted to wait on them and serve them?

The introductory singing of the Old Hundredth Psalm was, it must be

confessed, a failure. The large majority of the children present had

never either heard or seen a piano; and when Meenie went to that

strange-looking instrument (it had been brought over from her mother's

cottage with considerable difficulty), and when she sate down and struck

the first deep resounding chords--and when Ronald, at his end of the

table, led off the singing with his powerful tenor voice--they were far

too much interested and awestruck to follow. Meenie sang, in her quiet

clear way, and Maggie timidly joined in, but the children were silent.

However, as has already been said, the restraint that was at first

pretty obvious very soon wore off; the tea and cake were consumed amid

much general hilarity and satisfaction; and when in due course the

Chairman rose to deliver his address, and when Miss Douglas tapped on

the table to secure attention, and also by way of applause, several of

the elder ones had quite enough courage and knowledge of affairs to

follow her example, so that the speaker may be said to have been

received with favour.

And if there were any wise ones there, whose experience had taught them

that tea and cake were but a snare to entrap innocent people into being

lectured and sermonised, they were speedily reassured. The Chairman's

address was mostly about starlings and jays and rabbits and ferrets and

squirrels; and about the various ways of taming these, and teaching

them; and of his own various successes and failures when he was a boy.

He had to apologise at the outset for not speaking in the Gaelic; for he

said that if he tried they would soon be laughing at him; he would have

to speak in English; but if he mentioned any bird or beast whose name

they did not understand, they were to ask him, and he would tell them

the Gaelic name. And very soon it was clear enough that this was no

lecture on the wanderings of the children of Israel, nor yet a sermon on

justification by faith; the eager eyes of the boys followed every detail

of the capture of the nest of young ospreys; the girls were like to cry

over the untimely fate of a certain tame sparrow that had strayed within

the reach--or the spring rather--of an alien cat; and general laughter

greeted the history of the continued and uncalled-for mischiefs and evil

deeds of one Peter, a squirrel but half reclaimed from its savage ways,

that had cost the youthful naturalist much anxiety and vexation, and

also not a little blood. There was, moreover, a dark and wild story of

revenge--on an ill-conditioned cur that was the terror of the whole

village, and was for ever snapping at girls' ankles and boys' legs--a

most improper and immoral story to be told to young folks, though the

boys seemed to think the ill-tempered beast got no more than it

deserved. That small village, by the way, down there in the Lothians,

seemed to have been a very remarkable place; the scene of the strangest

exploits and performances on the part of terriers, donkeys, pet kittens,

and tame jackdaws; haunted by curious folk, too, who knew all about

bogles and kelpies and such uncanny creatures, and had had the most

remarkable experiences of them (though modern science was allowed to

come in here for a little bit, with its cold-blooded explanations of the

supernatural). And when, to finish up this discursive and apparently

aimless address, he remarked that the only thing lacking in that village

where he had been brought up, and where he had observed all these

incidents and wonders, was the presence of a kind-hearted and generous

young lady, who, on an occasion, would undertake all the trouble of

gathering together the children for miles around, and would do

everything she could to make them perfectly happy, they knew perfectly

well whom he meant; and when he said, in conclusion, that if they knew

of any such an one about here, in Inver-Mudal, and if they thought that

she had been kind to them, and if they wished to show her that they were

grateful to her for her goodness, they could not do better than give her

three loud cheers, the lecture came to an end in a perfect storm of

applause; and Meenie--blushing a little, and yet laughing--had to get up

and say that she was responsible for the keeping of order by this

assembly, and would allow no speech-making and no cheering that was not

put down in the programme.

After this there was a service of raisins; and in the general quiet that

followed Mr. Murray came into the room, just to see how things were

going on. Now the innkeeper considered himself to be a man of a

humorous turn; and when he went up to shake hands with Miss Douglas, and

looked down the long table, and saw Ronald presiding at the other end,

and her presiding at this, and all the children sitting so sedately

there, he remarked to her in his waggish way--

'Well, now, for a young married couple, you have a very large family.'

But Miss Douglas was not a self-conscious young person, nor easily

alarmed, and she merely laughed and said--

'I am sure they are a very well-behaved family indeed.'

But Ronald, who had not heard the jocose remark, by the way, objected to

any one coming in to claim Miss Douglas's attention on so important an

occasion; and in his capacity of Chairman he rose and rapped loudly on

the table.

'Ladies and gentlemen,' he said, 'we're not going to have any idlers

here the night. Any one that bides with us must do something. I call

on Mr. Murray to sing his well-known song, "Bonnie Peggie, O."'

'Indeed no, indeed no,' the innkeeper said, instantly retreating to the

door. 'There iss too many good judges here the night. I'll leave you

to yourselfs; but if there's anything in the inn you would like sent

over, do not be afraid to ask for it, Ronald. And the rooms for the

children are all ready, and the beds; and we'll make them very

comfortable, Miss Douglas, be sure of that now.'

'It's ower soon to talk about beds yet,' Ronald said, when the innkeeper

had gone; and he drove home the wooden bolt of the door, so that no

other interloper should get in. Meenie had said she wanted no outsiders

present; that was enough.

And then they set about getting through the programme--the details of

which need not be repeated here. Song followed song; when there was any

pause Meenie played simple airs on the piano; for 'The Cameraman's

Dream,' when it came to her turn to read them something, she substituted

'The Pied Piper of Hamelin,' which was listened to with breathless

interest. Even the little Maggie did her part in the 'Huntingtower'

duet very creditably--fortified by the knowledge that there were no

critics present. And as for the children, they had become quite

convinced that there was to be no sermon; and that they were not to be

catechised about their lessons, nor examined as to the reasons annexed

to the Fourth Commandment; all care was gone from them; for the moment

life was nothing but shortbread and raisins and singing, with admiration

of Miss Douglas's beautiful hair and beautiful kind eyes and soft and

laughing voice.

And then, as the evening wore on, it became time to send these young

people to the beds that had been prepared for them at the inn; and of

course they could not break up without singing 'Auld Lang Syne'--Meenie

officiating at the piano, and all the others standing up and joining

hands. And then she had to come back to the table to propose a vote of

thanks to the Chairman. Well, she was not much abashed. Perhaps there

was a little extra colour in her face at the beginning; and she said she

had never tried to make a speech before; and, indeed, that now there was

no occasion, for that all of them knew Ronald (so she called him, quite

naturally), and knew that he was always willing to do a kindness when he

was asked. And she said that he had done a great deal more than had

been originally begged of him; and they ought all of them, including

herself, to be very grateful to him; and if they wished to give him a

unanimous vote of thanks, they were all to hold up their right hand--as

she did. So that vote was carried; and Ronald said a few words in

reply--mostly about Miss Douglas, in truth, and also telling them to

whom they were indebted for the money found in each saucer. Then came

the business of finding wraps for them and muffling them up ere they

went out into the January night (though many a one there was all unused

to such precautions, and wondered that Miss Douglas should be so careful

of them), while Ronald, up at the head of the room, was playing them a

parting salute on the pipes--_Caidil gu lo_ it was, which means 'Sleep

on till day.' Finally, when Maggie and Meenie were ushering their small

charges through the darkness to the back-door of the inn, he found

himself alone; and, before putting out the candles and fastening up, he

thought he might as well have a smoke--for that solace had been denied

him during the long evening.

Well, he was staring absently into the mass of smouldering peats, and

thinking mostly of the sound of Meenie's voice as he had heard it when

she sang with the children 'Whither, pilgrims, are you going?' when he

heard footsteps behind him, and turning found that both Meenie and

Maggie had come back.

'Ronald,' said Meenie, with her pretty eyes smiling at him, 'do you know

that Maggie and I are rather tired----'

'Well, I dinna wonder,' said he.

'Yes, and both of us very hungry too. And I am sure there will be no

supper waiting for either Maggie or me when we go home; and do you think

you could get us some little thing now?'

'Here?' said he, with his face lighting up with pleasure: were those

three to have supper all by themselves?

'Oh yes,' said she, in her friendly way. 'I am not sure that my mother

would like me to stay at the inn for supper; but this is our own place;

and the table laid; and Maggie and I would rather be here, I am sure.

And you--are you not hungry too--after so long a time--I am sure you

want something besides raisins and shortbread. But if it will be any

trouble--

'Trouble or no trouble,' said he quickly, 'has nothing to do wi't.

Here, Maggie, lass, clear the end of the table; and we'll soon get some

supper for ye.'

And away he went to the inn, summoning the lasses there, and driving and

hurrying them until they had arranged upon a large tray a very

presentable supper--some cold beef, and ham, and cheese, and bread, and

ale; and when the fair-haired Nelly was ready to start forth with this

burden, he lit a candle and walked before her through the darkness, lest

she should miss her footing. And very demure was Nelly when she placed

this supper on the table; there was not even a look for the smart young

keeper; and when Meenie said to her--

'I hear, Nelly, you had great goings-on on Monday night'--she only

answered--'Oh yes, miss, there was that'--and could not be drawn into

conversation, but left the moment she had everything arranged.

But curiously enough, when the two girls had taken their seats at this

little cross table, Ronald remained standing--just behind them, indeed,

as if he were a waiter. And would Miss Douglas have this? and would Miss

Douglas have that? he suggested--mostly to cloak his shamefacedness; for

indeed that first wild assumption that they were all to have supper

together was banished now as an impertinence. He would wait on them,

and gladly; but--but his own supper would come after.

'And what will you have yourself, Ronald?' Meenie asked.

'Oh,' said he, 'that will do by and by. I am not so hungry as you.'

'Did you have so much of the shortbread?' said she, laughing.

He went and stirred up the peats--and the red glow sent a genial warmth

across towards them.

'Come, Ronald,' said the little Maggie, 'and have some supper.'

'There is no hurry,' he said evasively. 'I think I will go outside and

have a pipe now; and get something by and by.'

'I am sure,' said Meenie saucily, 'that it is no compliment to us that

you would rather go away and smoke. See, now, if we cannot tempt you.'

And therewith, with her own pretty fingers, she made ready his place at

the table; and put the knife and fork properly beside the plate; and

helped him to a slice of beef and a slice of ham; and poured some ale

into his tumbler. Not only that, but she made a little movement of

arranging her dress which was so obviously an invitation that he should

there and then take a place by her, that it was not in mortal man to

resist; though, indeed, after sitting down, he seemed to devote all his

attention to looking after his companions. And very soon any small

embarrassment was entirely gone; Meenie was in an unusually gay and

merry mood--for she was pleased that her party had been so obviously a

success, and all her responsibilities over. And this vivacity gave a

new beauty to her face; her eyes seemed more kind than ever; when she

laughed, it was a sweet low laugh, like the cooing of pigeons on a

summer afternoon.

'And what are you thinking of, Maggie?' she said, suddenly turning to

the little girl, who had grown rather silent amid this talking and

joking.

'I was wishing this could go on for ever,' was the simple answer.

'What? A perpetual supper? Oh, you greedy girl! Why, you must be

looking forward to the Scandinavian heaven----'

'No, it's to be with Ronald and you, Meenie dear--just like now--for you

seem to be able to keep everybody happy.'

Miss Douglas did blush a little at this; but it was an honest

compliment, and it was soon forgotten. And then, when they had finished

supper, she said--

'Ronald, do you know that I have never played an accompaniment to one of

your songs? Would you not like to hear how it sounds?

'But--but I'm not used to it--I should be putting you wrong----'

'No, no; I'm sure we will manage. Come along,' she said briskly.

'There is that one I heard you sing the other day--I heard you, though

you did not see me--"Gae bring to me a pint o' wine, and fill it in a

silver tassie; that I may drink, before I go, a service to my bonnie

lassie"--and very proud she was, I suppose. Well, now, we will try that

one.'

So they went to the other end of the barn, where the piano was; and

there was a good deal of singing there, and laughing and joking--among

this little party of three. And Meenie sang too--on condition

(woman-like) that Ronald would light his pipe. Little Maggie scarcely

knew which to admire the more--this beautiful and graceful young lady,

who was so complaisant and friendly and kind, or her own brother, who

was so handsome and manly and modest, and yet could do everything in the

world. Nor could there have been any sinister doubt in that wish of

hers that these three should always be together as they were then; how

was she to know that this was the last evening on which Meenie Douglas

and Ronald were to meet on these all too friendly terms?

*CHAPTER XI.*

*A REVELATION.*

Early the next morning, when as yet the sunrise was still widening up

and over the loch, and the faint tinge of red had not quite left the

higher slopes of Clebrig, Ronald had already finished his breakfast, and

was in his own small room, smoking the customary pipe, and idly--and

with some curious kind of whimsical amusement in his brain--turning over

the loose sheets of scribbled verses. And that was a very ethereal and

imaginary Meenie he found there--a Meenie of lonely hillside

wanderings--a Meenie of daydreams and visions: not the actual,

light-hearted, shrewd-headed Meenie of the evening before, who was so

merry after the children had gone, and so content with the little

supper-party of three, and would have him smoke his pipe without regard

to her pretty silk dress. This Meenie on paper was rather a wistful,

visionary, distant creature; whereas the Meenie of the previous evening

was altogether good-humoured and laughing, with the quaintest

mother-ways in the management of the children, and always a light of

kindness shining in her clear Highland eyes. He would have to write

something to portray Meenie (to himself) in this more friendly and

actual character. He could do it easily enough, he knew. There never

was any lack of rhymes when Meenie was the occasion. At other things he

had to labour--frequently, indeed, until, reflecting that this was not

his business, he would fling the scrawl into the fire, and drive it into

the peats with his heel, and go away with much content. But when Meenie

was in his head, everything came readily enough; all the world around

seemed full of beautiful things to compare with her; the birds were

singing of her; the mountains were there to guard her; the burn, as it

whispered through the rushes, or danced over the open bed of pebbles,

had but the one continual murmur of Meenie's name. Verses? he could

have written them by the score--and laughed at them, and burned them,

too.

Suddenly the little Maggie appeared.

'Ronald,' she said, 'the Doctor's come home.'

'What--at this time in the morning?' he said turning to her.

'Yes, I am sure; for I can see the dog-cart at the door of the inn.'

'Well now,' said he, hastily snatching up his cap, 'that is a stroke of

luck--if he will come with us. I will go and meet him.'

But he need not have hurried so much; the dog-cart was still at the door

of the inn when he went out; and indeed remained there as he made his

way along the road. The Doctor, who was a most sociable person, had

stopped for a moment to hear the news; but Mr. Murray happened to be

there, and so the chat was a protracted one. In the meantime Ronald's

long swinging stride soon brought him into their neighbourhood.

'Good morning, Doctor!' he cried.

'Good morning, Ronald,' said the other, turning round. He was a big man,

somewhat corpulent, with an honest, wholesome, ruddy face, soft brown

eyes, and an expressive mouth, that could temper his very apparent

good-nature with a little mild sarcasm.

'You've come back in the nick of time,' the keeper said--for well he

knew the Doctor's keen love of a gun. 'I'm thinking of driving some of

the far tops the day, to thin down the hares a bit; and I'm sure ye'd be

glad to lend us a hand.'

'Man, I was going home to my bed, to tell ye the truth,' said the

Doctor; 'it's very little sleep I've had the last ten days.'

'What is the use of that?' said Ronald, 'there's aye plenty o' time for

sleep in the winter.'

And then the heavy-framed occupant of the dog-cart glanced up at the

far-reaching heights of Clebrig, and there was a grim smile on his

mouth.

'It's all very well,' said he, 'for herring-stomached young fellows like

you to face a hill like that; but I've got weight to carry, man; and--

'Come, come, Doctor; it's not the first time you've been on Clebrig,'

Ronald said--he could see that Meenie's father wanted to be persuaded.

'Besides, we'll no try the highest tops up there--there's been too much

snow. And I'll tell ye how we'll make it easy for ye; we'll row ye down

the loch and begin at the other end and work home--there, it's a fair

offer.'

It was an offer, at all events, that the big doctor could not withstand.

'Well, well,' said he, 'I'll just drive the dog-cart along and see how

they are at home; and then if the wife lets me out o' her clutches, I'll

come down to the loch side as fast as I can.'

Ronald turned to one of the stable-lads (all of whom were transformed

into beaters on this occasion).

'Jimmy, just run over to the house and fetch my gun; and bid Maggie put

twenty cartridges--number 4, she knows where they are--into the bag; and

then ye can take the gun and the cartridge-bag down to the boat--and be

giving her a bale-out till I come along. I'm going to the farm now, to

get two more lads if I can; tell the Doctor I'll no be long after him,

if he gets down to the loch first.'

Some quarter of an hour thereafter they set forth; and a rough pull it

was down the loch, for the wind was blowing hard, and the waves were

coming broadside on. Those who were at the oars had decidedly the best

of it, for it was bitterly cold; but even the others did not seem to

mind much--they were chiefly occupied in scanning the sky-line of the

hills (a habit that one naturally falls into in a deer country), while

Ronald and the Doctor, seated in the stern, were mostly concerned about

keeping their guns dry. In due course of time they landed, made their

way through a wood of young birch-trees, followed the channel of a burn

for a space, and by and by began to reach the upper slopes, where the

plans for the first drive were carefully drawn out and explained.

Now it is unnecessary to enter into details of the day's achievements,

for they were neither exciting nor difficult nor daring. It was clearly

a case of shooting for the pot; although Ronald, in his capacity of

keeper, was anxious to have the hares thinned down, knowing well enough

that the over-multiplying of them was as certain to bring in disease as

the overstocking of a mountain farm with sheep. But it may be said that

the sport, such as it was, was done in a workmanlike manner. In

Ronald's case, each cartridge meant a hare--and no praise to him, for it

was his business. As for the Doctor, he was not only an excellent shot,

but he exercised a wise and humane discretion as well. Nothing would

induce him to fire at long range on the off-chance of hitting; and this

is all the more laudable in the shooting of mountain hares, for these,

when wounded, will frequently dodge into a hole among the rocks, like a

rabbit, baffling dogs and men, and dying a miserable death. Moreover,

there was no need to take risky shots. The two guns were posted behind

a stone or small hillock--lying at full length on the ground, only their

brown-capped heads and the long barrels being visible. Then the faint

cries in the distance became somewhat louder--with sticks rattled on

rocks, and stones flung here and there; presently, on the sky-line of

the plateau, a small object appeared, sitting upright and dark against

the sky; then it came shambling leisurely along--becoming bigger and

bigger and whiter and whiter every moment, until at length it showed

itself almost like a cat, but not running stealthily like a cat, rather

hopping forward on its ungainly high haunches; and then again it would

stop and sit up, its ears thrown back, its eyes not looking at anything

in front of it, its snow-white body, with here and there a touch of

bluish-brown, offering a tempting target for a pea-rifle. But by this

time, of course, numerous others had come hopping over the sky-line; and

now as the loud yells and shouts and striking of stones were close at

hand, there was more swift running instead of hobbling and pausing among

the white frightened creatures; and as they cared for nothing in front

(in fact a driven hare cannot see anything that is right ahead of it,

and will run against your boots if you happen to be standing in the

way), but sped noiselessly across the withered grass and hard clumps of

heather--bang! went the first barrel, and then another and another, as

quick as fingers could unload and reload, until here, there, and

everywhere--but always within a certain radius from the respective

posts--a white object lay on the hard and wintry ground. The beaters

came up to gather them together; the two guns had risen from their cold

quarters; there were found to be thirteen hares all told--a quite

sufficient number for this part--and not one had crawled or hobbled away

wounded.

But we will now descend for a time from these bleak altitudes and return

to the little hamlet--which seemed to lie there snugly enough and

sheltered in the hollow, though the wind was hard on the dark and driven

loch. Some hour or so after the shooters and beaters had left, Meenie

Douglas came along to Ronald's cottage, and, of course, found Maggie the

sole occupant, as she had expected. She was very bright and cheerful and

friendly, and spoke warmly of Ronald's kindness in giving her father a

day's shooting.

'My mother was a little angry,' she said, laughing, 'that he should go

away just the first thing after coming home; but you know, Maggie, he is

so fond of shooting; and it is not always he can get a day, especially

at this time of the year: and I am very glad he has gone; for you know

there are very few who have to work so hard.'

'I wish they may come upon a stag,' said the little Maggie--with

reckless and irresponsible generosity.

'Do you know, Maggie,' said the elder young lady, with a shrewd smile on

her face, 'I am not sure that my mother likes the people about here to

be so kind; she is always expecting my father to get a better post--but

I know he is not likely to get one that will suit him as well with the

fishing and shooting. There is the Mudal--the gentlemen at the lodge

let him have that all the spring through; and when the loch is not let,

he can always have a day by writing to Mr. Crawford; and here is Ronald,

when the hinds have to be shot at Christmas, and so on. And if the

American gentleman takes the shooting as well as the loch, surely he

will ask my father to go with him a day or two on the hill; it is a

lonely thing shooting by one's self. Well now, Maggie, did you put the

curtains up again in Ronald's room?'

'Yes, I did,' was the answer, 'and he did not tear them down this time,

for I told him you showed me how to hang them; but he has tied them back

so that they might just as well not be there at all. Come and see,

Meenie dear.'

She led the way into her brother's room; and there, sure enough, the

window-curtains (which were wholly unnecessary, by the way, except from

the feminine point of view, for there was certainly not too much light

coming in by the solitary window) had been tightly looped and tied back,

so that the view down the loch should be unimpeded.

'No matter,' said Meenie; 'the window is not so bare-looking as it used

to be. And I suppose he will let them remain up now.'

'Oh yes, when he was told that you had something to do with them,' was

the simple answer.

Meenie went to the wooden mantelpiece, and put the few things there

straight, just as she would have done in her own room, blowing the light

white peat-dust off them, and arranging them in neater order.

'I wonder, now,' she said, 'he does not get frames for these

photographs; they will be spoiled by finger marks and the dust.'

Maggie said shyly--

'That was what he said to me the other day--but not about these--about

the one you gave me of yourself. He asked to see it, and I showed him

how careful I was in wrapping it up; but he said no--the first packman

that came through I was to get a frame if he had one, and glass too; or

else that he would send it in to Inverness to be framed. But you know,

Meenie, it's not near so nice-looking--or anything, anything like so

nice-looking--as you are.'

'Nothing could be that, I am sure,' said Meenie lightly; and she was

casting her eyes about the room, to see what further improvements she

could suggest.

But Maggie had grown suddenly silent, and was standing at the little

writing-table, apparently transfixed with astonishment. It will be

remembered that when Ronald, in the morning, heard that the Doctor was

at the door of the inn, he had hurriedly hastened away to intercept him;

and that, subsequently, in order to save time, he had sent back a lad

for his gun and cartridges, while he went on to the farm. Now it was

this last arrangement that caused him to overlook the fact that he had

left his writing materials--the blotting-pad and everything--lying

exposed on the table; a piece of neglect of which he had scarcely ever

before been guilty. And as ill-luck would have it, as Maggie was idly

wandering round the room, waiting for Meenie to make any further

suggestions for the smartening of it, what must she see lying before

her, among these papers, but a letter, boldly and conspicuously

addressed?

'Well!' she exclaimed, as she took it up. 'Meenie, here is a letter for

you! why didna he send it along to you?'

'A letter for me?' Meenie said, with a little surprise. 'No! why should

Ronald write a letter to me?--I see him about every day.'

'But look!'

Meenie took the letter in her hand; and regarded the address; and

laughed.

'It is very formal,' said she. 'There is no mistake about it. "_Miss

Wilhelmina Stuart Douglas_"--when was I ever called that before? And

"_Inver-Mudal, Sutherlandshire, N.B._" He should have added _Europe_,

as if he was sending it from the moon. Well, it is clearly meant for

me, any way--oh, and open too----'

The next minute all the careless amusement fled from her face; her

cheeks grew very white, and a frightened, startled look sprang to her

eyes. She but caught the first few lines--

_'O wilt thou be my dear love?_

_(Meenie and Meenie)_

_O wilt thou be my ain love?_

_(My sweet Meenie)?_

and then it was with a kind of shiver that her glance ran over the rest

of it; and her heart was beating so that she could not speak; and there

was a mist before her eyes.

'Maggie,' she managed to say at length--and she hurriedly folded up the

paper again and placed it on the table with the others--'I should not

have read it--it was not meant for me--it was not meant that I should

read it--come away, come away, Maggie.'

She took the younger girl out of the room, and herself shut the door,

firmly, although her fingers were all trembling.

'Maggie,' she said, 'you must promise never to tell any one that you

gave me that letter--that I saw it----'

'But what is the matter, Meenie?' the smaller girl said in bewilderment,

for she could see by the strange half-frightened look of Miss Douglas's

face that something serious had happened.

'Well, it is nothing--it is nothing,' she forced herself to say. 'It

will be all right. I shouldn't have read the letter--it was not meant

for me to see--but if you say nothing about it, no harm will be done.

That's all; that's all. And now I am going to see if the children are

ready that are to go by the mail-car.'

'But I will go with you, Meenie.'

Then the girl seemed to recollect herself; and she glanced round at the

interior of the cottage, and at the little girl, with an unusual kind of

look.

'No, no, not this morning, Maggie,' she said. 'You have plenty to do.

Good-bye--good-bye!' and she stooped and kissed her, and patted her on

the shoulder, and left, seeming anxious to get away and be by herself.

Maggie remained there in considerable astonishment. What had happened?

Why should she not go to help with the children? and why good-bye--when

Meenie would be coming along the road in less than an hour, as soon as

the mail-car had left? And all about the reading of something contained

in that folded sheet of paper. However, the little girl wisely resolved

that, whatever was in that letter, she would not seek to know it, nor

would she speak of it to any one, since Meenie seemed so anxious on that

point; and so she set about her domestic duties again--looking forward

to the end of these and the resumption of her knitting of her brother's

jersey.

Well, the winter's day went by, and they had done good work on the hill.

As the dusk of the afternoon began to creep over the heavens, they set

out for the lower slopes on their way home; and very heavily weighted

the lads were with the white creatures slung over their backs on sticks.

But the dusk was not the worst part of this descent; the wind was now

driving over heavy clouds from the north; and again and again they would

be completely enveloped, and unable to see anywhere more than a yard

from their feet. In these circumstances Ronald took the lead; the

Doctor coming next, and following, indeed, more by sound than by sight;

the lads bringing up in the wake in solitary file, with their heavy

loads thumping on their backs. It was a ghostly kind of procession;

though now and again the close veil around them would be rent in twain,

and they would have a glimpse of something afar off--perhaps a spur of

Ben Loyal, or the dark waters of Loch Meidie studded with its small

islands. Long before they had reached Inver-Mudal black night had

fallen; but now they were on easier ground; and at last the firm footing

of the road echoed to their measured tramp, as the invisible company

marched on and down to the warmth and welcome lights of the inn.

The Doctor, feeling himself something of a truant, went on direct to his

cottage; but the others entered the inn; and as Ronald forthwith

presented Mrs. Murray with half a dozen of the hares, the landlord was

right willing to call for ale for the beaters, who had had a hard day's

work. Nor was Ronald in a hurry to get home; for he heard that Maggie

was awaiting him in the kitchen; and so he and Mr. Murray had a pipe and

a chat together, as was their custom. Then he sent for his sister.

'Well, Maggie, lass,' said he, as they set out through the dark, 'did

you see all the bairns safely off this morning?'

'No, Ronald,' she said, 'Meenie did not seem to want me; so I stayed at

home.'

'And did you find Harry sufficient company for ye? But I suppose Miss

Douglas came and stayed with ye for a while.'

'No, Ronald,' said the little girl, in a tone of some surprise; 'she has

not been near the house the whole day, since the few minutes in the

morning.'

'Oh,' said he, lightly, 'she may have been busy, now her father is come

home. And ye maun try and get on wi' your lessons as well as ye can,

lass, without bothering Miss Douglas too much; she canna always spend so

much time with ye.'

The little girl was silent. She was thinking of that strange occurrence

in the morning of which she was not to speak; and in a vague kind of way

she could not but associate that with Meenie's absence all that day, and

also with the unusual tone of her 'good-bye.' But yet, if there were

any trouble, it would speedily pass away. Ronald would put everything

right. Nobody could withstand him--that was the first and last article

of her creed. And so, when they got home, she proceeded cheerfully

enough to stir up the peats, and to cook their joint supper in a manner

really skilful for one of her years; and she laid the cloth; and put the

candles on the table; and had the tea and everything ready. Then they

sate down; and Ronald was in very good spirits, and talked to her, and

tried to amuse her. But the little Maggie rather wistfully looked back

to the brilliant evening before, when Meenie was with them; and perhaps

wondered whether there would ever again be a supper-party as joyful and

friendly and happy as they three had been when they were all by

themselves in the big gaily-lit barn.

*CHAPTER XII.*

*'WHEN SHADOWS FALL.'*

The deershed adjoining the kennels was a gloomy place, with its bare

walls, its lack of light, and its ominous-looking crossbeams, ropes, and

pulley for hanging up the slain deer; and the morning was dark and

lowering, with a bitter wind howling along the glen, and sometimes

bringing with it a sharp smurr of sleet from the northern hills. But

these things did not seem to affect Ronald's spirits much as he stood

there, in his shirt-sleeves, and bare-headed, sorting out the hares that

were lying on the floor, and determining to whom and to whom such and

such a brace or couple of brace should be sent. Four of the plumpest he

had already selected for Mrs. Douglas (in the vague hope that the useful

present might make her a little more placable), and he was going on with

his choosing and setting aside--sometimes lighting a pipe--sometimes

singing carelessly--

_'O we aft hae met at e'en, bonnie Peggie, O,_

_On the banks o' Cart sae green, bonnie Peggie, O,_

_Where the waters smoothly rin,_

_Far aneath the roarin' linn,_

_Far frae busy strife and din, bonnie Peggie, O'--_

when the little Maggie came stealing in.

'Ronald,' she said, with an air of reproach, 'why are ye going about on

such a morning without your jacket, and bare-headed, too?'