_MORAG'S JOURNEY INTO THE WORLD BEYOND THE MOUNTAINS._
IT was a wild night at Stratheagle. An eddying wind had been blowing the
deep snow into wreaths, and fresh falling flakes were whirling about in
all directions through the darkness.
All trace of the road through the mountain pass had disappeared; and it
would have fared ill with the Honorable Mr. Clifford's slim English
footman, with his elegant calves, as he made his way towards the
keeper's shieling among the crags, if he had not taken the precaution of
securing a guide from the village below.
The steep ascent to the hut was almost impassable, and more than once
the man seemed disposed to give it up and beat a retreat to his quarters
at the village without fulfilling his mission. But his more stalwart
companion cheered him on, assuring him at intervals that it was only a
"mile and a bittock," and pointed to the light in the window of the hut
long before it shed any encouraging ray on the exhausted flunkey, who
went stumbling and grumbling up the hill through the blinding drift,
feeling himself the most ill-used of persons to have been sent to such
regions in such weather.
The light from the window of the hut was at last really visible,
shimmering through the darkness, and soon the benighted travellers stood
under the snowy crags which towered above the little shieling.
Our old friend Morag was, meanwhile, comfortably seated in the
ingle-neuk, reading laboriously from one of her ancient yellow-leaved
volumes, little dreaming what was in store for her to-night. Her father
sat near her smoking his evening pipe, but he was not staring into the
fire in idleness and grim silence as of old. He seemed at the present
moment quite absorbed in a newspaper, the date of which was uncertain,
seeing it had been torn off when it was used for lining a packing-case
of game during autumn. But though it was not a "day's paper," it seemed
to satisfy the keeper's literary cravings, and he had carefully perused
it from beginning to end by the light of the fire of peat and pine,
which blazed brightly on the hearth.
The snow made a warm covering round the wall, and a secure white thatch
on the porous roof, so it happened that to-night the hut was really a
more comfortable abode than it had often proved during autumn-days.
Morag jumped to her feet when she heard the sound of voices and the loud
knocking; and now she stood gazing at her father with a look of startled
surprise.
Laying down his pipe, the keeper prepared to open the door, but before
he had time to do so, the injured footman stood in the middle of the
floor, stamping the snow from his feet, and inspecting his precious
person generally, as he muttered expressions of indignation concerning
this unpleasant piece of service which had fallen to his lot.
Morag recognized the visitor at once, and forgetting her shyness, she
sprang forward, saying, in low, eager tones, "Will ye no be frae the wee
leddy o' the castle? I'm thinkin' there maun be something wrang. Is she
no weel?"
"Miss Clifford, I presume you mean, little girl. Well, you are right, so
far. I come from her father--my master, the Honorable Mr. Clifford. I
think I've got a letter for you; but 'pon my word it's been at the risk
of my life bringin' it here. S'pose I'd better read it myself?" said he,
looking round patronizingly at the keeper.
And without waiting for a reply, he tore open the closed envelope, amid
the smouldering indignation of the keeper, to whom it was evidently
addressed, and began to read as follows:--
"Will Morag come to London immediately to see her little friend
Blanche, who is very ill and wants to see her? The Keeper may safely
trust his daughter to the servant, who has got all directions how to
proceed.