XI.

_THE LOCH._

A COLD north wind that smelled of winter had been sweeping through the

glen for several days, making the great fir-forests creak and swing, and

the ash and birk-trees down in the hollow shiver and drop their leaves

at each gust. The nights had begun to draw in visibly, and the mornings

felt chilly, and looked sad and grey. Everything seemed to proclaim that

the pleasant autumn days at Glen Eagle were nearly done. The purple

bloom had quite faded from the heather, and the hills began to look

stern and bleak in the cheerless afternoon.

"Red o'er the forest peers the setting sun,

The line of yellow light dies fast away

That crown'd the eastern copse; and chill and dun

Falls on the moor the brief October day."

To two young hearts that wintry wind and its accompaniments sounded

dirge-like and sad, for it told of happy days that had passed all too

soon. Blanche sighed as she remembered the dull London school-room, and

the measured promenade in Kensington Park; and Morag's lip grew

tremulous as she trotted by Shag's side along the familiar roads, and

sighed to think how desolate they would seem without his little

mistress.

The shooting party at the old castle had already begun to break up; and

the day for general dispersion to warmer latitudes was fixed, when, one

afternoon, Blanche and Morag stood together in the old court-yard,

trying to decide what would be the very pleasantest way of spending it.

They had promised to spend the last afternoon with Kirsty; and now the

last but one had come, and the hours seemed so very precious that they

feared to "squander one wavelet" of them.

Shag had returned to his winter quarters that morning, not without a

tearful parting on the little girl's side. The little Shetlander

manifested no emotion on the occasion; indeed Blanche fancied that she

could detect a merry twinkle of satisfaction in his bright eye when he

recognized his master, and heard his native Gaelic, and he certainly

moved off with him in his readiest trot. Chance, too, had been sent

southward along with the first detachment of servants, so the little

girls were able to make their plans irrespective of their quadruped

friends.

It seemed this afternoon as if the setting in of bad weather was likely

to prove a false alarm after all. The bleak wind that had been sweeping

through the strath ceased to blow to-day, and the bright sunshine was

once again lighting up the desolate ravines, and sending its glory upon

the autumnal tints down among the hollows. Never had the Glen looked

more lovely, Blanche thought, as her eye wandered over the now familiar

landscape. The loch lay shining in the sunlight, like a looking-glass

framed in the heather; and as she looked across to it, Blanche suddenly

remembered that she had promised to go there before she left to find a

water lily, as a model for one of a group of wax flowers which Miss

Prosser had been making during these holiday afternoons, while her pupil

was rambling among the hills.

It was a satisfaction to be able to find an object for the walk, and the

girls set out briskly along the winding path which led from the castle

grounds to the moorland road. The drooping birk boughs were quite golden

now, and the rowan berries a coral red. Blanche kept plucking them as

she went cheerily along, warbling in the sunshine. Feeling very happy

for the present, she did not allow the shadow of the coming separation

to throw its gloom over her, as it seemed to do with the grave little

Morag, who walked silently by her side. Everything looked bright and

smiling, and her wee leddy appeared in one of her most joyous moods; and

Morag wondered why she should feel so sad, that the surrounding

brightness seemed to jar upon her, rather than chase away her sorrowful

mood. And as she listened to the little birds, who took up the refrain

of Blanche's warblings, and merrily chirruped odes of welcome to the

returned sun, Morag was reminded of a sentiment expressed in one of

Kirsty's songs. She had never understood the reason of its saying--

"Why will ye chant, ye little birds,

And I sae weary, fu' o' care?"

and had once remarked to her old friend that "even though a body was

feelin' some sad like, it wad surely do their hearts guid to hear the

birdies sing sic bonnie."

But Kirsty had smiled and said, "'Deed, bairn, but ye're wrang there,

I'm thinkin'. No a' the birdies' bonnic sangs, nor a' the sweet warks o'

God, can pit glaidness intil broken, sorrowfu' herts. Naething can do

that, I'm thinkin', excep' a sicht o' His ain face, and a soun' o' His

ain voice. I've whiles thocht 'at the poet-chiel' wha made the bit sang

maun hae kent fine what it was to hae a richt sorrowfu' sair hert mony a

day;" and Morag thought that she was able, from to-day's experience, to

catch a glimpse of the poet's meaning.

Presently Blanche caught the infectious sadness of her friend, and

became quiet and meditative also. Flinging away her bunches of rowan

berries, she came and put her arms round Morag's sunburnt neck, saying,

gently, "You won't quite forget me, Morag, dear, when I'm far away, will

you?"

A great glow of love rose in Morag's heart as she felt the soft curls

about her neck and Blanche's lips on her cheek. She felt as if she could

have died for her bonnie wee leddy then and there, but she only answered

quietly, "I'm no thinkin' we'll forget ye that ready. Kirsty and me will

be min'in' on ye ilka day. But I'm some feared whiles that ye'll no be

min'in' o' the Glen when ye gang back to the gran' muckle toun ye bide

in."

There was something else which Morag longed to say to Blanche that

afternoon, and many times before, but she had never been able to summon

up courage to speak about it. She wished to tell her of the new feeling

that had been taking possession of her heart, and which she longed to

share with Blanche.

Since those first days of wonder and perplexity--which hearing the hymn

in the fir-wood caused--Morag had never talked to the little English

girl of those things which had been slowly sinking into her heart.

Kirsty had been her Evangelist, Morag sometimes thought, as she read the

"Pilgrim's Progress." It was she who had pointed out the way to the

Wicket Gate when the little girl was groping blindly; and to her alone

could she speak freely as yet. But now that she had come to understand

what a real, living, listening Friend the Lord Jesus Christ is, though

unseen by earthly eyes, she longed intensely to share this new faith and

hope with her wee leddy, whom she loved so well. And since Kirsty had

hinted at the many dangers which the world beyond the mountains might

have in store for her now guileless friend, she longed the more to ask

her to take this unseen Friend for her Saviour and Guide. But somehow

the opportunity passed, and they had reached the loch before Morag could

find words to say what she wanted.

Blanche did not like the sombre mood which appeared to have fallen on

them both; and seemed bent on talking herself and her friend into a

gayer mood by castle-building. She began to prattle about all that she

meant to do next summer, of the many ambitious feats in the way of

climbing which she meant to perform, and of the familiar places--written

over with memories of those pleasant autumn days which they would have

to revisit.

The yellow afternoon sun was shining on the rippling water of the loch,

and the blue sky, with numberless white fleecy clouds, lay like heaps of

snow reflected on its clear depths. On the soft mossy banks, sloping

down to the loch, there grew masses of scented bog myrtle, and alder

bushes, while yellow flags and rushes fringed the edge of the water. The

broad dark leaves of the water-lilies rocked about in tangled masses on

the loch; but Blanche looked in vain for a lily to take to Miss Prosser.

At last she gave up the search, and throwing herself lazily on the sunny

bank, she lay watching the circles made by the trouts in pursuit of

flies hovering upon the surface of the water.

Morag meanwhile spied a wild rose-bush at some distance off, on the

bank, and she clambered up to gather the brilliant scarlet berries; and

Blanche presently started off again on a fresh search after the

water-lily; for she was unwilling to return from her last expedition

without the flower which she had promised to find. At last she was

rewarded by discovering a beautiful lily lying hidden away among the

dark leaves. It seemed to be at a convenient stretching distance, so she

knelt down on the moss, and put out her hand to grasp it, which she did

with difficulty, for it was further off than she had thought. She was

about to spring back in triumph at having captured the prize, when she

felt the ground suddenly give way, and in spite of her efforts to save

herself, she went slipping into the water--down, down among the roots of

the floating lilies.

In her terror she gave a plunge to try to grasp some reeds growing near

and to regain her footing, but she only landed herself further from the

bank than before. All happened in the twinkling of an eye--so quickly

that Blanche raised no cry. But now that all footing was gone, and she

felt herself being fast submerged in the deep water, she shrieked with

terror, and threw up her arms in wild dismay.

Morag was at the water's brink in a moment; but she only came in time to

see the ripples closing over Blanche's golden crown. She stretched out

her hands towards her, but saw in a moment that she had been carried

too far out for any such help. Morag looked round in silent despair,

for she could not swim, and she had presence of mind to realise that it

would be impossible otherwise to save her; but she could not let her

bonnie wee leddy die all alone there, and, in an instant two little

girls, instead of one, were struggling for life among the rocking

lily-leaves. Morag's wild plunge brought her alongside Blanche, who,

with her remaining consciousness roused, clutched her arm, but very soon

both the girls were sinking, sinking, and the cruel water closing over

them!

Once again Blanche's hands were thrown up, and her closing eyes looked

on the calm afternoon scene--the sun-lighted grass, with the scarlet

berries scattered over it, dropped by Morag in her wild plunge towards

the bank--once again, and then--

But what is that rustling among the alder bushes, and these sounds of

heavy breathing after a hard race?

Kenneth Macpherson stands on the grassy bank just as the long, floating

curls went under the rippling water, and Blanche Clifford's last

struggle for life seemed over. She had loosened her hold on Morag's arm,

who now began to make convulsive efforts to find her again, as she was

drifted away. In a moment, Kenneth's arm was round Blanche, and with a

few vigorous strokes he laid her on the bank--or all that remained of

her, for his hasty glance gave him little hope that life was there.

Morag's consciousness partially returned as soon as he grasped her, and

very soon she, too, was laid on the grass by the panting Kenneth. But

the most difficult part of his work was yet to come, he thought, as he

glanced at the motionless figures on the turf. Kneeling down, he began

to chafe Blanche's cold hands, and vainly tried to detect some sign of

life. Presently Morag got up from the turf, and stood shivering, gazing

blankly round, as if she were at a loss to know what had happened. The

sight of the water recalled everything with terrible vividness; she

looked wildly round in search of Blanche, and saw her lying pale and

motionless on the bank, her fair curls all drenched and tangled. With a

cry of agony, Morag sprang to her side.

"I don't think she's dead, Morag!" whispered Kenneth, who still knelt

beside her. "Do you think you are able to stay here while I go to the

castle to get help? But I'm afraid you must be very wet and tired,

yourself, poor Morag!"

"Oh, rin! rin to the castle! I'll easy bide wi' her! My bonnie wee

leddy, speak but ae word til me!" And Morag bent eagerly over her; but

the lips were silent and bloodless, and the eyes gave no sign of life.

It was terrible to be so helpless to do anything, Morag thought, as she

kept chafing the cold fingers, while, in a low monotone of agony, she

prayed that her wee leddy might come back to life again.

Meanwhile, Kenneth flew like lightning to the castle. On the way, he met

the wearied remnant of the shooting party sauntering homewards, after

their last day at the moors, all unconscious of what had been going on

at the loch. Their pace was quickly changed as they hurried towards the

water, while servants followed with a supply of blankets and all other

necessaries. Mr. Clifford hardly listened to Kenneth's incoherent words,

when, flinging down his gun, he hurried towards the bank where his child

lay still unconscious.

"Blanche, darling, speak to me!" he cried, lifting her in his arms. But

the head fell back, and the motionless frame gave no sign of life. The

dearly won trophy, the water-lily, dropped at last from the unclasping

fingers, and the white arm hung listlessly down.

All restoratives were eagerly tried, and at length the anxious group on

the greensward fancied they could detect a slight quiver through the

frame, and Blanche slowly returned from the borders of the far-off Land,

as the last rays of the evening sun were gleaming upon the loch. The

blue eyes opened wearily, and she glanced shiveringly round, evidently

unconscious of where she was.

"Morag, Morag! don't let me go!" she cried, with a look of terror. "The

river is so dark and cold! Do you not see the Golden City yet, Morag?"

"Hush, Blanche, darling! You must not think of the river any more. You

are safe in papa's arms now!"

Gradually Blanche returned to consciousness, and remembered what had

happened. After a bewildered glance at the group on the turf, and Miss

Prosser seated at her side, she began to understand what had brought

them all there. Presently she sat up among the blankets in which she was

imbedded, and began to look eagerly round for one familiar face which

she did not see. "Morag!" she whispered, looking inquiringly at her

papa, and then she glanced towards the rippling water, all tinged with

the gorgeous sunset hues, and there she saw floating the wreath of

rowan berries which she had twined among Morag's black locks that

afternoon. "Morag! where is she? Oh, surely not _there_? She jumped into

the loch! I remember seeing her! I remember it all now!" and Blanche

clasped her hands, and looked wildly into her father's face.

Morag was, meanwhile, seated farther up on the bank, where she could

catch a glimpse of her friend, though she could not be seen by her. With

her usual shyness, she had fled when the castle party surrounded

Blanche; and hiding behind some alder bushes, she watched with intense

anxiety the movements within the circle. But when, at last, she heard

her own name called by Blanche, her heart gave a great throb of joy, and

in an instant she was at her wee leddy's side.

"Morag, darling! it's all right then? I never felt so happy in my life,"

said Blanche, clasping the little brown hands in her trembling fingers.

"Oh, I was so frightened when I woke up. I couldn't see you anywhere,

and felt almost afraid to ask, when I saw the rowan-wreath floating

about. Oh! it was too terrible. But do tell me, how did it all happen?

how did we ever get out of the water?"

"We were droonin', ye ken, leddy; but Kenneth cam' runnin' doun the

bank frae the peat-moss, and took's baith oot o' the water."

"Oh yes; by the way, where has the brave fellow gone?" asked Mr.

Clifford, getting up from the turf, where he had been kneeling by his

daughter's side, and looking about for Kenneth.

"But Kenneth--I don't understand," said Blanche, looking perplexed. "He

wasn't with us, Morag. How did he ever come here?"

It was, indeed, a strange coincidence that Kenneth Macpherson should

have been within sight and hearing of the loch this afternoon. It was

the first time he had been so near it since he came to Glen Eagle. He

had come to a peat-moss in the vicinity to lay in Kirsty's winter supply

of peats, having borrowed Neil's cart for the occasion. Early in the

afternoon he noticed the little girls pass on their way to the loch, as

he conjectured. He stopped his work for a moment to watch them, and

wished he had been a little nearer, so that they might have spoken to

him, as he heard Blanche's ringing silvery tones through the keen air.

And not long afterwards, when he heard the wild shriek from the loch, he

thought he recognized the voice, and leaving cart and peats, bounded

off in the direction from which it came, reaching the spot, as we know,

just in time to rescue the little girls. After his return from the

castle he had hovered near the watching group till he satisfied himself

that Blanche had recovered, and then he went again to work at the

peat-moss.

Morag had watched him slip quietly back to his work, unheeding of thanks

or praise; and from that hour he became enshrined as a hero in her

little woman's heart. She longed to see the joy and pride which would be

reflected in Kirsty's gray eyes when she heard of her grandson's share

in the doings of this afternoon; and she felt a glow of pride when Mr.

Clifford called him a brave fellow.

As soon as Blanche had recovered sufficiently, they prepared to carry

her away from the scene of the catastrophe. She was looking as pale as

the water-lily lying on the turf beside her. Catching a glimpse of it,

she picked it up, and handed it to Miss Prosser, saying, "You see I have

got it for you. Isn't it a beauty? It was the very last one I could

find; I remember holding it so tight when I was in the deep water. I

suppose Kenneth fished it up with me," she added, smiling, as Miss

Prosser took the dearly-won trophy from the trembling fingers, and

kissed her little pupil with more tenderness than she was wont to do.

Poor little Morag watched her bonnie wee leddy being borne away to the

castle with the desolate feeling of being left out in the cold. The

reaction had come after the intense experiences of these past hours. She

stood watching the glad procession set out with wistful eyes, and then

she moved away in the direction of her solitary home, for she felt cold

and weary enough now. Her father had gone to the kennels before the

shooting party heard of the accident, and he now sat at home in the hut,

wondering what had become of his little daughter.

"Papa, I remember it all now!" exclaimed Blanche, who had been lying

pale and meditative in her father's arms, as he carried her home. "I

slipped into the water just as I got hold of the lily. Morag wasn't in

sight, I remember, and I got very frightened when I felt the dark water

coming all round, and carrying me quite away from the bank. I recollect

hearing myself scream quite well, and then, in a minute, Morag stood on

the bank, stretching out her hand; but I couldn't reach it, and only got

further away than before. And just as the water was going right over me,

I saw Morag jump in, and then I don't remember anything more. Dear,

brave Morag! it was just like her, wasn't it, papa? I'm sure I should

have been much too frightened to jump into the water. But she must be as

cold and tired as I was, papa! Where are you, Morag?" asked Blanche,

looking round.

"Yes, to be sure, pussy; we should have thought of that before. You have

been absorbing all our attention in a such troublesome manner, you see.

Where are you, little black-eyes? I saw her flitting about quite briskly

a little while ago, as if the ducking in her native waters had not

affected her unpleasantly. I declare, if she hasn't redeveloped her

propensity for scudding, Blanchie! She's nowhere to be seen," said Mr.

Clifford, glancing round the group.

Blanche was so distressed at the disappearance of her friend, that one

of the servants was despatched in quest of her, and the little girl

being presently recaptured, she was, in spite of her entreaties, carried

off to the castle, and put under the old housekeeper's care.

She was made quite a lion of in the servants' hall that evening, though

she was somewhat at a loss to understand why. She recounted, quite

eloquently for her, how Kirsty's grandson had saved them both, and

seemed much surprised when somebody commended her for her efforts to

save their little mistress; for it never occurred to her that any other

course would have been possible than to die with her bonnie wee leddy.

Ellis had never taken the little native to her heart, in spite of her

little mistress' frequent triumphant reminders that the ragged maiden of

the fir-wood had proved no dangerous gypsy after all; but to-night she

was most gracious, patting the trembling little Morag condescendingly on

the head, as she led the way to Blanche's room, where Morag was summoned

in the course of the evening.

The little bare, weather-beaten feet trod much more uneasily on the soft

carpet than among the bracken; and the friendship which had sprung up

and flourished among the woods and braes did not seem likely to thrive

in the atmosphere of a luxuriantly-furnished apartment. Blanche was

lying on the sofa, wrapped in a blue flannel dressing-gown, looking very

feeble and subdued, when Morag entered the room. She looked wistfully at

her little mountain friend, but did not speak, and Miss Prosser, who was

seated at her pupil's side, noted the mutual shyness, and considerately

withdrew.

Beckoning to Morag to come and sit beside her, she took the little

brown hand into her fluttering fingers, and said, nervously, "Morag,

dear, I want so much to speak to you. Do you know, though it was only

such a moment of time, I thought so much when I felt going down, down

among the dark moving water all alone. And you left the pleasant, sunny

turf, and came to drown with me in that dreadful water. How could you

venture, Morag? It was too brave and kind!" and Blanche's lip quivered.

Morag was going to interrupt her, but she went on. "Do you remember that

chapter of the Bible we were reading to Kirsty yesterday, Morag? I'm

afraid I didn't care much for it at the time, and only read it to please

her; but since I've been lying here, I seem to hear one verse of it

always. Wasn't it Jesus Christ who said that it was the greatest love to

lay down one's life for a friend? Morag, that's what you did for me. I

saw you do it. Oh, Morag, when I awoke and saw the rowan-wreath floating

about in the water, and you not anywhere to be seen!" and Blanche

covered her face and sobbed.

All Morag's shyness seemed to vanish when she had to take the part of a

comforter. The little brown arm was quietly slipped round the bent

head, and she whispered gently, "Ye mustna think nothing o' my slippin'

in efter ye til the water. I couldna hae bidden ahin' for onything. But

ye see if it hadna been for Kenneth, none o' us would hae been gotten

oot o' the loch." And after a pause she continued, "I'm no thinkin' that

word frae the Bible would even mean the like o' Kenneth, though. Will it

no be meanin' the Lord Jesus Christ, that died o' the green hill,--as

ye're bonnie hymn speaks o'? I weel min' the day I heard it;" and then

she added, with an evident effort, "and I've aye been wantin' to tell ye

that I love Him richt weel mysel' noo, sin' yon day i' the fir-wood."

"And is it because you love the Lord Jesus so much that you were so

brave at the loch to-day, Morag?" said Blanche, looking questioningly at

her.

"I'm no thinkin' that exactly," replied Morag, slowly, as if she were

pondering her motives; "I'm thinkin' it was because I looed you, little

leddy, and forby, life wouldna hae seemed muckle worth gin ye had been

awa."

"D'ye min' the bonnie picter oot o' the 'Pilgrim's Progress?' I was jist

thinkin' to mysel', on my road hame the nicht, that gin Kenneth hadna

come, we would hae gotten thegither to the bonnie toon lyin' i' the

sun,--like the droonin' folk i' the picter," and Morag looked at

Blanche, and smiled brightly.

The little girl shook her head sadly. "You would have gone to the Golden

City, Morag; but I'm afraid I shouldn't. You see I never really thought

I should like to go to heaven. It seemed to me that it would be so much

nicer to stay always here, in this beautiful world we know and love,

than to be sent away to an unknown land. Do you know, Morag, I thought

of all that to-day, as I looked at the pleasant sunny banks of the loch,

just before the cruel, creeping water covered me all up. It made me feel

so terrified."