"Oh?" cried Annie, in raptures, as she gazed down the verdant strath.
"Surely this is fairyland itself!"
The ladies, and Jeannie as well, were the guests of the Queen during the
long, happy month they stayed on the island.
There was no more gold-seeking or pearl-fishing to any great extent.
Only one day they all went up the valley and had a delightful picnic by
the winding river and under the shade of the magnolia trees. Reginald
and Dickson both waded into the river, and were lucky enough, when they
came out with their bags full of oysters, to find some rare and
beautiful pearls. They were as pure as any Scotch ever taken from the
Tay, and had a pretty pinkish hue.
But now Jeannie Lee herself must bare her shapely legs and feet and try
her luck. She wanted one big pearl for her dear mistress, she said, and
three wee ones for a ring for somebody. Yes, and she was most
successful, and Annie is wearing that large pearl now as I write. And
the three smaller? Well, I may as well tell it here and be done with
it. McGregor, the handsome, bold sailor, had asked Jeannie to be his
wife, and she had consented. The ring was for Mac.
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On Lone Tree Mountain, assisted by the men, Dickson and Reginald soon
set to digging, and found all their gold and pearls safe and sound.
And now parting time came, and farewells were said, the Queen saying she
should live in hopes of seeing them back again.
"God bless you all, my children."
"And God bless you, Queen Bertha."
With ringing British cheers, the little band playing "Good-bye,
Sweetheart, Good-bye," the _Highland Mary_ sailed slowly, and, it
appeared, reluctantly, away from the Isle of Flowers. At sunset it was
seen but as a little blue cloud low down on the western horizon.
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To Matty's surprise the two great dogs made friends with each other at
once, and every day during that long voyage homewards they romped and
played together, with merry Matty as their constant companion, and never
quarrelled even once.
British shores and the snow-white steeples and spires of bonnie Aberdeen
at last! The first thing that Reginald did was to hire a carriage, and,
accompanied by Annie and the honest dog Oscar, drive straight to
McLeod's cottage.
To their surprise and alarm they found the house empty and the windows
boarded up.
"Oh, Annie!" cried Reginald. "I fear the worst. Your poor uncle has
gone."
Annie had already placed her handkerchief to her eyes.
"Beg pardon," said the jarvey, "but is it Laird McLeod you're a-talking
about? Oh, yes; he's gone this six months! Man! I knew the old man
well. Used to drive him most every day of his life. But haven't you
heard, sir?"
"No, my good fellow; we have not been on shore two hours. Tell us."
"There isn't much to tell, sir, though it was sad enough. For the young
Laird o' Bilberry Hall shot himself one morning by accident while out
after birds. Well, of course, that dear soul, the old Laird, is gone
back to his estate, and such rejoicings as there was you never did see."
"And he is not dead, then?"
"Dead! He is just as lively as a five-year-old!"
This was indeed good news. They were driven back to the ship, and that
same afternoon, accompanied by Matty, after telegraphing for the
carriage to meet them, they started by train up Deeside.
Yes, the carriage was there, and not only the Laird, but Mr Hall as
well.
I leave anyone who reads these lines to imagine what that happy reunion
was like, and how pleasantly spent was that first evening, with so much
to say, so much to tell.
But a house was built for Mr Hall on the estate, and beautiful gardens
surrounded it, and here he meant to settle down.
Jeannie was married in due course, but she and McGregor took a small
farm near to Bilberry Hall, and on the estate, while Reginald and his
wife lived in the mansion itself.
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Many years have passed away since the events I have related in this
"ower-true" tale. Matty is a tall girl now, and her uncle's constant
companion. Reginald and Annie are lovers still--"happy, though
married." The heather still blooms bonnie on the hills; dark wave the
pine trees in the forests around; the purring of the dove is heard
mournfully sounding from the thickets of spruce, and the wildflowers
grow on every bank and brae; but--the auld Laird has worn away. His
home is under the long green grass and the daisies; yet even when the
snow-clads that grave in a white cocoon, Annie never forgets to visit
it, and rich and rare are the flowers that lie at its head.
And so my story ends, so drops the curtain down.
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The End.