Chapter II: Part 2

One night the little Maggie stole away through the dark to the Doctor's cottage. There was a light in the window of Meenie's room; she could hear the sound of the piano; no doubt Meenie was practising and alone; and on such occasions a visit from Maggie was but little interruption. And so the smaller girl went boldly towards the house and gained admission, and was proceeding upstairs without any ceremony, when the sudden cessation of the music caused her to stop. And then she heard a very simple and pathetic air begin--just touched here and there with a few chords: and was Meenie, tired with the hard work of the practising, allowing herself this little bit of quiet relaxation? She was singing too--though so gently that Maggie could scarcely make out the words. But she knew the song--had not Meenie sung it many times before to her?--and who but Meenie could put such tenderness and pathos into the simple air? She had almost to imagine the words--so gentle was the voice that went with those lightly-touched chords--

_'The sun rase sae rosy, the gray hills adorning,_
_Light sprang the laverock, and mounted on hie,_
_When true to the tryst o' blythe May's dewy morning,_
_Jeanie cam' linking out owre the green lea._
_To mark her impatience I crap 'mong the brackens,_
_Aft, aft to the kent gate she turned her black e'e;_
_Then lying down dowilie, sighed, by the willow tree,_
_"I am asleep, do not waken me."'[#]_

[#] 'I am asleep, do not waken me' is the English equivalent of the Gaelic name of the air, which is a very old one, and equally pathetic in its Irish and Highland versions.

Then there was silence. The little Maggie waited; for this song was a great favourite with Ronald, who himself sometimes attempted it; and she would be able to tell him when she got home that she had heard Meenie sing it--and he always listened with interest to anything, even the smallest particulars, she could tell him about Meenie and about what she had done or said. But where were the other verses? She waited and listened; the silence was unbroken. And so she tapped lightly at the door and entered.

And then something strange happened. For when Maggie shut the door behind her and went forward, Meenie did not at once turn her head to see who this was, but had hastily whipped out her handkerchief and passed it over her eyes. And when she did turn, it was with a kind of look of bravery--as if to dare any one to say that she had been crying--though there were traces of tears on her cheeks.

'Is it you, Maggie? I am glad to see you,' she managed to say.

The younger girl was rather frightened and sorely concerned as well.

'But what is it, Meenie dear?' she said, going and taking her hand. 'Are you in trouble?'

'No, no,' her friend said, with an effort to appear quite cheerful, 'I was thinking of many things--I scarcely know what. And now take off your things and sit down, Maggie, and tell me all about this great news. It was only this afternoon that my father learnt that you and your brother were going away; and he would not believe it at first, till he saw Ronald himself. And it is true, after all? Dear me, what a change there will be!'

She spoke quite in her usual manner now; and her lips were no longer trembling, but smiling; and the Highland eyes were clear, and as full of kindness as ever.

'But it is a long way off, Meenie,' the smaller girl began to explain quickly, when she had taken her seat by the fire, 'and Ronald is so anxious to please everybody, and--and that is why I came along to ask you what you think best.'

'I?' said Meenie, with a sudden slight touch of reserve.

'It'll not be a nice thing going away among strange folk,' said her companion, 'but I'll no grumble if it's to do Ronald good; and even among strange folk--well, I don't care as long as I have Ronald and you, Meenie. And it's to Glasgow, and not to Edinburgh, he thinks he'll have to go; and then you will be in Glasgow too; so I do not mind anything else. It will not be so lonely for any of us; and we can spend the evenings together--oh no, it will not be lonely at all----'

'But, Maggie,' the elder girl said gravely, 'I am not going to Glasgow.'

Her companion looked up quickly, with frightened eyes.

'But you said you were going, Meenie!'

'Oh no,' the other said gently. 'My mother has often talked of it--and I suppose I may have to go some time; but my father is against it; and I know I am not going at present anyway.'

'And you are staying here--and--and Ronald and me--we will be by ourselves in Glasgow!' the other exclaimed, as if this prospect were too terrible to be quite comprehended as yet.

'But if it is needful he should go?' Meenie said. 'People have often to part from their friends like that.'

'Yes, and it's no much matter when they have plenty of friends,' said the smaller girl, with her eyes becoming moist, 'but, Meenie, I havena got one but you.'

'Oh no, you must not say that,' her friend remonstrated. 'Why, there is your brother in Glasgow, and his family; I am sure they will be kind to you. And Ronald will make plenty of friends wherever he goes--you can see that for yourself; and do you think you will be lonely in a great town like Glasgow? It is the very place to make friends, and plenty of them--

'Oh, I don't know what to do--I don't know what to do, if you are not going to Glasgow, Meenie!' she broke in. 'I wonder if it was that that Ronald meant. He asked me whether I would like to stay here or go with him, for Mrs. Murray has offered to take me in, and I would have to help at keeping the books, and that is very kind of them, I am sure, for I did not think I could be of any use to anybody. And you are to be here in Inver-Mudal--and Ronald away in Glasgow----'

Well, it was a bewildering thing. These were the two people she cared for most of all in the world; and virtually she was called upon to choose between them. And if she had a greater loyalty and reverence towards her brother, still, Meenie was her sole girl-friend, and monitress, and counsellor. What would her tasks be without Meenie's approval; how could she get on with her knitting and sewing without Meenie's aid; what would the days be like without the witchery of Meenie's companionship--even if that were limited to a passing word or a smile? Ronald had not sought to influence her choice; indeed, the alternative had scarcely been considered, for she believed that Meenie was going to Glasgow also; and with her hero brother and her beautiful girl-friend both there, what more could she wish for in the world? But now---?

Well, Meenie, in her wise and kind way, strove to calm the anxiety of the girl; and her advice was altogether in favour of Maggie's going to Glasgow with her brother Ronald, if that were equally convenient to him, and of no greater expense than her remaining in Inver-Mudal with Mrs. Murray.

'For you know he wants somebody to look after him,' Meenie continued, with her eyes rather averted, 'and if it does not matter so much here about his carelessness of being wet and cold, because he has plenty of health and exercise, it will be very different in Glasgow, where there should be some one to bid him be more careful.'

'But he pays no heed to me,' the little sister sighed, 'unless I can tell him you have been saying so-and-so--then he listens. He is very strange. He has never once worn the blue jersey that I knitted for him. He asked me a lot of questions about how it was begun; and I told him as little as I could about the help you had given me,' she continued evasively, 'and when the snow came on, I thought he would wear it; but no--he put it away in the drawer with his best clothes, and it's lying there all neatly folded up--and what is the use of that? If you were going to Glasgow, Meenie, it would be quite different. It will be very lonely there.'

'Lonely!' the other exclaimed; 'with your brother Ronald, and your other brother's family, and all their friends. And then you will be able to go to school and have more regular teaching--Ronald spoke once or twice to me about that.'

'Yes, indeed,' the little Maggie said; but the prospect did not cheer her much; and for some minutes they both sate silent, she staring into the fire. And then she said bitterly--

'I wish the American people had never come here. It is all their doing. It never would have come into Ronald's head to leave Inver-Mudal but for them. And where else will he be so well known--and--and every one speaking well of him--and every one so friendly----'

'But, Maggie, these things are always happening,' her companion remonstrated. 'Look at the changes my father has had to make.'

'And I wonder if we are never to come back to Inver-Mudal, Meenie?' the girl said suddenly, with appealing eyes.

Meenie tried to laugh, and said--

'Who can tell? It is the way of the world for people to come and go. And Glasgow is a big place--perhaps you would not care to come back after having made plenty of friends there.'

'My friends will always be here, and nowhere else,' the smaller girl said, with emphasis. 'Oh, Meenie, do you think if Ronald were to get on well and make more money than he has now, he would come back here, and bring me too, for a week maybe, just to see every one again?'

'I cannot tell you that, Maggie,' the elder girl said, rather absently.

After this their discussion of the strange and unknown future that lay before them languished somehow; for Meenie seemed preoccupied, and scarcely as blithe and hopeful as she had striven to appear. But when Maggie rose to return home--saying that it was time for her to be looking after Ronald's supper--her friend seemed to pull herself together somewhat, and at once and cheerfully accepted Maggie's invitation to come and have tea with her the following afternoon.

'For you have been so little in to see us lately,' the small Maggie said; 'and Ronald always engaged with the American people--and often in the evening too as well as the whole day long.'

'But I must make a great deal of you now that you are going away,' said Miss Douglas, smiling.

'And Ronald--will I ask him to stay in till you come?'

But here there was some hesitation.

'Oh no, I would not do that--no doubt he is busy just now with his preparations for going away. I would not say anything to him--you and I will have tea together by ourselves.'

The smaller girl looked up timidly.

'Ronald is going away too, Meenie.'

Perhaps there was a touch of reproach in the tone; at all events Meenie said, after a moment's embarrassment--

'Of course I should be very glad if he happened to be in the house--and--and had the time to spare; but I think he will understand that, Maggie, without your saying as much to him.'

'He gave plenty of his time to the American young lady,' said Maggie, rather proudly.

'But I thought you and she were great friends,' Meenie said, in some surprise.

'It takes a longer time than that to make friends,' the girl said; and by and by she left.

Then Meenie went up to her room again, and sate down in front of the dull, smouldering peat-fire, with its heavy lumps of shadow, and its keen edges of crimson, and its occasional flare of flame and shower of sparks. There were many pictures there--of distant things; of the coming spring-time, with all the new wonder and gladness somehow gone out of it; and of the long long shining summer days, and Inver-Mudal grown lonely: and of the busy autumn time, with the English people come from the south, and no Ronald there, to manage everything for them. For her heart was very affectionate; and she had but few friends; and Glasgow was a great distance away. There were some other fancies too, and self-questionings and perhaps even self-reproaches, that need not be mentioned here. When, by and by, she rose and went to the piano, which was still open, it was not to resume her seat. She stood absently staring at the keys--for these strange pictures followed her; and indeed that one half-unconscious trial of '_I am asleep, do not waken me_' had been quite enough for her in her present mood.

*CHAPTER IV.*

*'AMONG THE UNTRODDEN WAYS.'*

Yes; it soon became clear that Meenie Douglas, in view of this forthcoming departure, had resolved to forego something of the too obvious reserve she had recently imposed on herself--if, indeed, that maidenly shrinking and shyness had not been rather a matter of instinct than of will. When Ronald came home on the following evening she was seated with Maggie in the old familiar way at a table plentifully littered with books, patterns, and knitting; and when she shook hands with him, her timidly uplifted eyes had much of the old friendliness in them, and her smile of welcome was pleasant to see. It was he who was diffident and very respectful. For if her mother had enjoined her to be a little more distant in manner towards this one or the other of those around her--well, that was quite intelligible; that was quite right; and he could not complain; but on the other hand, if the girl herself, in this very small domestic circle, seemed rather anxious to put aside those barriers which were necessary out of doors, he would not presume on her good-nature. And yet--and yet--he could not help thawing a little; for she was very kind, and even merry withal; and her eyes were like the eyes of the Meenie of old.

'I am sure Maggie will be glad to get away from Inver-Mudal,' she was saying, 'for she will not find anywhere a schoolmistress as hard as I have been. But maybe she will not have to go to school at all, if she has to keep house for you?'

'But she'll no have to keep house for me,' Ronald said at once. 'If she goes to Glasgow, she'll be much better with my brother's family, for that will be a home for her.'

'And where will you go, Ronald?' she said.

'Oh, into a lodging--I can fend for myself.'

At this she looked grave--nay, she did not care to conceal her disapproval. For had she not been instructing Maggie in the mysteries of housekeeping in a town--as far as these were known to herself: and had not the little girl showed great courage; and declared there was nothing she would not attempt rather than be separated from her brother Ronald?

'It would never do,' said he, 'to leave the lass alone in the house all day in a big town. It's very well here, where she has neighbours and people to look after her from time to time; but among strangers----'

Then he looked at the table.

'But where's the tea ye said ye would ask Miss Douglas in to?'

'We were so busy with the Glasgow housekeeping,' Meenie said, laughing, 'that we forgot all about it.'

'I'll go and get it ready now,' the little Maggie said, and she went from the room, leaving these two alone.

He was a little embarrassed; and she was also. There had been no _amantium irae_ of any kind; but all the same the _integratio amoris_ was just a trifle difficult; for she on her side was anxious to have their old relations re-established during the brief period that would elapse ere he left the neighbourhood, and yet she was hesitating and uncertain; while he on his side maintained a strictly respectful reserve. He 'knew his place;' his respect towards her was part of his own self-respect; and if it did not occur to him that it was rather hard upon Meenie that all the advances towards a complete rehabilitation of their friendship should come from her, that was because he did not know that she was moved by any such wish, and also because he was completely ignorant of a good deal else that had happened of late. Of course, certain things were obvious enough. Clearly the half-frightened, distant, and yet regretful look with which she had recently met and parted from him when by chance they passed each other in the road was no longer in her eyes; there was a kind of appeal for friendliness in her manner towards him; she seemed to say, 'Well, you are going away; don't let us forget the old terms on which we used to meet.' And not only did he quickly respond to that feeling, but also he was abundantly grateful to her; did not he wish to carry away with him the pleasantest memories of this beautiful, sweet-natured friend, who had made all the world magical to him for a while, who had shown him the grace and dignity and honour of true womanhood, and made him wonder no less at the charm of her clear-shining simplicity and naturalness? The very name of 'Love Meenie' would be as the scent of a rose--as the song of a lark--for him through all the long coming years.

'It will make a great change about here,' said she, with her eyes averted, 'your going away.'

'There's no one missed for long,' he answered, in his downright fashion. 'Where people go, people come; the places get filled up.'

'Yes, but sometimes they are not quite the same,' said she rather gently. She was thinking of the newcomer. Would he be the universal favourite that Ronald was--always good-natured and laughing, but managing everybody and everything; lending a hand at the sheep-shearing or playing the pipes at a wedding--anything to keep life moving along briskly; and always ready to give her father a day's hare-shooting or a turn at the pools of Mudal-Water when the spates began to clear? She knew quite well--for often had she heard it spoken of--that no one could get on as well as Ronald with the shepherds at the time of the heather-burning: when on the other moors the shepherds and keepers were growling and quarrelling like rival leashes of collies, on Lord Ailine's ground everything was peace and quietness and good humour. And then she had a vague impression that the next keeper would be merely a keeper; whereas Ronald was--Ronald.

'I'm sure I was half ashamed,' said he, 'when I got his lordship's letter. It was as fair an offer as one man could make to another; or rather, half a dozen offers; for he said he would raise my wage, if that was what was wrong; or he would let me have another lad to help me in the kennels; or, if I was tired of the Highlands he would get me a place at his shooting in the south. Well, I was sweirt to trouble his lordship with my small affairs; but after that I couldna but sit down and write to him the real reason of my leaving----'

'And I'm certain,' said she quickly, 'that he will write back and offer you any help in his power.'

'No, no,' said he, with a kind of laugh, 'the one letter is enough--if it ever comes to be a question of a written character. But it's just real friendly and civil of him; and if I could win up here for a week or a fortnight in August, I would like well to lend them a hand and set them going; for it will be a good year for the grouse, I'm thinking----'

'Oh, will you be coming to see us in August?' she said, with her eyes suddenly and rather wistfully lighting up.

'Well, I don't know how I may be situated,' said he. 'And there's the railway expense--though I would not mind that much if I had the chance otherwise; for his lordship has been a good master to me; and I would just like to lend him a hand, and start the new man with the management of the dogs and the beats. That's one thing Lord Ailine will do for me, I hope: I hope he will let me have a word about the man that's coming in my place; I would not like to have a cantankerous ill-tempered brute of a fellow coming in to have charge of my dogs. They're the bonniest lot in Sutherlandshire.'

All this was practical enough; and meanwhile she had set to work to clear the table, to make way for Maggie. When the young handmaiden appeared with the tea-things he left the room for a few minutes, and presently returned with a polecat-skin, carefully dressed and smoothed, in his hand.

'Here's a bit thing,' said he, 'I wish ye would take, if it's of any use to you. Or if ye could tell me anything ye wished it made into, I could have that done when I go south. And if your mother would like one or two of the deer-skins, I'm sure she's welcome to them; they're useful about a house.'

'Indeed, you are very kind, Ronald,' said she, flushing somewhat, 'and too kind, indeed--for you know that ever since we have known you all these kindnesses have always been on one side--and--and--we have never had a chance of doing anything in return for you----'

'Oh, nonsense,' said he good-naturedly. 'Well, there is one thing your father could do for me--if he would take my gun, and my rifle, and rods and reels, and just keep them in good working order, that would be better than taking them to Glasgow and getting them spoiled with rust and want of use. I don't want to part with them altogether; for they're old friends; and I would like to have them left in safe keeping----

She laughed lightly.

'And that is your way of asking a favour--to offer my father the loan of all these things. Well, I am sure he will be very glad to take charge of them----'

'And to use them,' said he, 'to use them; for that is the sure way of keeping them in order.'

'But perhaps the new keeper may not be so friendly?'

'Oh, I will take care about that,' said he confidently; 'and in any case you know it was his lordship said your father might have a day on the Mudal-Water whenever he liked. And what do you think, now, about the little skin there?'

'I think I will keep it as it is--just as you have given it to me,' she said simply.

In due course they had tea together; but that afternoon or evening meal is a substantial affair in the north-cold beef, ham, scones, oatmeal cake, marmalade, jam, and similar things all making their appearance--and one not to be lightly hurried over. And Meenie was so much at home now; and there was so much to talk over; and she was so hopeful. Of course, Ronald must have holiday-times, like other people; and where would he spend these, if he did not come back to his old friends? And he would have such chances as no mere stranger could have, coming through on the mail-cart and asking everywhere for a little trout-fishing. Ronald would have a day or two's stalking from Lord Ailine; and there was the loch; and Mudal-Water; and if the gentlemen were after the grouse, would they not be glad to have an extra gun on the hill for a day or two, just to make up a bag for them?

'And then,' said Meenie, with a smile, 'who knows but that Ronald may in time be able to have a shooting of his own? Stranger things have happened.'

When tea was over and the things removed he lit his pipe, and the girls took to their knitting. And never, he thought, had Meenie looked so pretty and pleased and quickly responsive with her clear and happy eyes. He forgot all about Mrs. Douglas's forecast as to the future estate of her daughter; he forgot all about the Stuarts of Glengask and Orosay; this was the Meenie whom Mudal knew, whom Clebrig had charge of, who was the friend and companion of the birds and the wild-flowers and the summer streams. What a wonderful thing it was to see her small fingers so deftly at work; when she looked up the room seemed full of light and entrancement; her sweet low laugh found an echo in the very core of his heart. And they all of them, for this one happy evening, seemed to forget that soon there was to be an end. They were together; the world shut out; the old harmony re-established, or nearly re-established; and Meenie was listening to his reading of 'the Eve of St. Agnes'--in the breathless hush of the little room--or she was praying, and in vain, for him to bring his pipes and play 'Lord Lovat's Lament,' or they were merely idly chatting and laughing, while the busy work of the fingers went on. And sometimes he sate quite silent, listening to the other two; and her voice seemed to fill the room with music; and he wondered whether he could carry away in his memory some accurate recollection of the peculiar, soft, rich tone, that made the simplest things sound valuable. It was a happy evening.

But when she rose to go away she grew graver; and as she and Ronald went along the road together--it was very dark, though there were a few stars visible here and there--she said to him in rather a low voice--

'Well, Ronald, the parting between friends is not very pleasant, but I am sure I hope it will all be for the best, now that you have made up your mind to it. And every one seems to think you will do well.'

'Oh, as for that,' said he, 'that is all right. If the worst comes to the worst, there is always the Black Watch.'

'What do you mean?'

'Well, they're always sending the Forty-Second into the thick of it, no matter what part of the world the fighting is, so that a man has a good chance. I suppose I'm not too old to get enlisted; sometimes I wish I had thought of it when I was a lad--I don't know that I would like anything better than to be a sergeant in the Black Watch. And I'm sure I would serve three years for no pay at all if I could only get one single chance of winning the V.C. But it comes to few; it's like the big stag--it's there when ye least expect it; and a man's hand is not just always ready, and steady. But I'm sure ye needna bother about what's going to happen to me--that's of small account.'

'It is of very great account to your friends, at all events,' said she valiantly, 'and you must not forget, when you are far enough away from here, that you have friends here who are thinking of you and always wishing you well. It will be easy for you to forget; you will have all kinds of things to do, and many people around you; but the others here may often think of you, and wish to hear from you. It is the one that goes away that has the best of it, I think--among the excitement of meeting strange scenes and strange faces----'

'But I am not likely to forget,' said he, rather peremptorily; and they walked on in silence.

Presently she said--

'I have a little album that I wish you would write something in before you go away altogether.'

'Oh yes, I will do that,' said he, 'and gladly.'

'But I mean something of your own,' she said rather more timidly.

'Why, but who told you--

'Oh, every one knows, surely!' said she. 'And why should you conceal it? There were the verses that you wrote about Mrs. Semple's little girl--I saw them when I was at Tongue last--and indeed I think they are quite beautiful: will you write out a copy of them in my album?'

'Or something else, perhaps,' said he--for instantly it flashed upon him that it was something better than a mere copy that was needed for Meenie's book. Here, indeed, was a chance. If there was any inspiration to be gained from these wild hills and straths and lonely lakes, now was the time for them to be propitious; would not Clebrig--the giant Clebrig--whose very child Meenie was--come to his aid, that so he might present to her some fragment of song or rhyme not unworthy to be added to her little treasury?

'I will send for the book to-morrow,' said he.

'I hope it will not give you too much trouble,' said she, as they reached the small gate, 'but it is very pleasant to turn over the leaves and see the actual writing of your friends, and think of when you last saw them and where they are now. And that seems to be the way with most of our friends; I suppose it is because we have moved about so; but there is scarcely any one left--and if it was not for a letter occasionally, or a dip into that album, I should think we were almost alone in the world. Well, good-night, Ronald--or will you come in and have a chat with my father?'

'I am afraid it is rather late,' he said.

'Well, good-night.'

'Good-night, Miss Douglas,' said he, and then he walked slowly back to his home.

And indeed he was in no mood to turn to the scientific volumes that had already arrived from Glasgow. His heart was all afire because of the renewal of Meenie's kindness; and the sound of her voice was still in his ears; and quite naturally he took out that blotting-pad full of songs and fragments of songs, to glance over them here and there, and see if amongst them there was any one likely to recall to him when he was far away from Inver-Mudal the subtle mystery and charm of her manner and look. And then he began to think what a stranger coming to Inver-Mudal would see in Meenie? Perhaps only the obvious things--the pretty oval of the cheek and chin, the beautiful proud mouth, the wide-apart contemplative eyes? And perhaps these would be sufficient to attract? He began to laugh with scorn at this stranger--who could only see these obvious things--who knew nothing about Meenie, and the sweetness of her ways, her shrewd common-sense and the frank courage and honour of her mind. And what if she were to turn coquette under the influence of this alien admiration? Or perhaps become sharply proud? Well, he set to work--out of a kind of whimsicality--and in time had scribbled out this--

_FLOWER AUCTION._

_Who will buy pansies?_
_There are her eyes,_
_Dew-soft and tender,_
_Love in them lies._

_Who will buy roses?_
_There are her lips,_
_And there is the nectar_
_That Cupidon sips._

_Who will buy lilies?_
_There are her cheeks,_
_And there the shy blushing_
_That maidhood bespeaks._

_'Meenie, Love Meenie,_
_What must one pay?'_
_'Good stranger, the market's_
_Not open to-day!'_

He looked at the verses again and again; and the longer he looked at them the less he liked them--he scarcely knew why. Perhaps they were a little too literary? They seemed to lack naturalness and simplicity; at all events, they were not true to Meenie; why should Meenie figure as a flippant coquette? And so he threw them away and turned to his books--not the scientific ones--to hunt out something that was like Meenie. He came near it in Tannahill, but was not quite satisfied. A verse or two in Keats held his fancy for a moment. But at last he found what he wanted in Wordsworth--

_'A violet by a mossy stone_
_Half hidden from the eye;_
_--Fair as a star, when only one_
_Is shining in the sky.'_

Yes; that was liker Meenie--who 'dwelt among the untrodden ways.'

*CHAPTER V.*

*A LESSON IN FLY-FISHING.*

Miss Carry Hodson returned from Paris in a very radiant mood; she had had what she called a real good time, and everything connected with the wedding had gone off most successfully. Her dress, that she had ordered long before she came to the Highlands, was a perfect fit; Lily Selden made the most charming and beautiful of brides; and no less a person than a prince (rather swarthy, and hailing from some mysterious region east of the Carpathians) had proposed the health of the bridesmaids, and had made especial mention of the young ladies who had travelled long distances to be present on the auspicious occasion.

However, on the morning after her return to Inver-Mudal her equanimity was somewhat dashed. When she went along the passage to the little hall--to see what the morning was like outside--she found waiting there a respectable-looking elderly Highlander, with grizzled locks, who touched his cap to her, and who had her waterproof over his arm. This last circumstance made her suspicious; instantly she went back to her father.

'Who is that man?' she asked.

'What man?'

'Why, an old man, who is waiting there, and he has got my waterproof slung over his arm.'

'Well, I suppose that is the new gillie.'

'Isn't Ronald going down?' she said, with very evident disappointment.

'Of course not,' her father said, with some sharpness. 'I think you have taken up enough of his time. And just now, when he is getting ready to go away, do you think I could allow him to waste day after day in attending to us? Seems to me it would be more to the point if you put your small amount of brain into devising some means of squaring up with him for what he has done already.'

'Oh, very well,' she said--or rather, what she did really say was 'Oh, vurry well'--and the pretty, pale, attractive face resumed its ordinary complacency, and she went off to make friends with the new gillie. She was on good terms with the old Highlander in about a couple of minutes; and presently they were on their way down to the loch, along with the lad John. Her father was to follow as soon as he had finished his letters.

But she was now to discover, what she had never discovered before, that salmon-fishing on a loch is a rather monotonous affair, unless the fish are taking very freely indeed. For one thing, the weather had settled down into a fine, clear, spring-like calm and quiet that was not at all favourable to the sport. It was very beautiful, no doubt; for sometimes for hours together the lake would be like a sheet of glass--the yellow shores and purple birch-woods all accurately doubled, with nearer at hand the faint white reflections of the snow-peaks in the north stretching out into the soft and deep blue; and when a breath of wind, from some unexpected point of the compass, began to draw a sharp line of silver between earth and water, and then came slowly across the loch to them, ruffling out that magic inverted picture on its way, the breeze was deliciously fresh and balmy, and seemed to bring with it tidings of the secret life that was working forward to the leafiness of summer. They kept well out into the midst of this spacious circle of loveliness, for old Malcolm declared they would be doing more harm than good by going over the fishing-ground; so she had a sufficiently ample view of this great panorama of water and wood and far mountain-slopes. But it grew monotonous. She began to think of Paris, and the brisk, busy days--a hurry of gaiety and pleasure and interest using up every possible minute. She wished she had a book--some knitting--anything. Why, when Ronald was in the boat--with his quick sarcastic appreciation of every story she had to tell, or every experience she had to describe--there was always enough amusement and talking. But this old man was hopeless. She asked him questions about his croft, his family, his sheep and cows; and he answered gravely; but she took no interest in his answers, as her father might have done. She was unmistakably glad to get ashore for lunch--which was picturesque enough, by the way, with that beautiful background all around; and neither her father nor herself was in any hurry to break up the small picnic-party and set to work again.

Nor did they do much better in the afternoon--though her father managed to capture a small eight-pounder; and so, in the evening, before dinner, she went along to Ronald to complain. She found him busy with his books; his gun and cap and telescope lying on the table beside him, showed that he had just come in.

'Ay,' said he, 'it's slow work in weather like this. But will ye no sit down?' and he went and brought her a chair.

'No, I thank you,' said she; 'I came along to see if you thought there was likely to be any change. Is your glass a good one?'

'First-rate,' he answered, and he went to the small aneroid and tapped it lightly. 'It was given me by a gentleman that shot his first stag up here. I think he would have given me his head, he was so pleased. Well, no, Miss Hodson, there's not much sign of a change. But I'll tell ye what we'll do, if you're tired of the loch, we'll try one or two of the pools on the Mudal.'

'You mean the river down there?'

'There's not much hope there either--for the water's low the now; but we might by chance get a little wind, or there are some broken bits in the stream--

'But you mean with a fly--how could I throw a fly?' she exclaimed.

'Ye'll never learn younger,' was the quiet answer. 'It there's no change to-morrow I'll take ye up the river myself--and at least ye can get some practice in casting----'

'Oh no, no,' said she hurriedly, 'thank you very much, but I must not take up your time----'

'I'm no so busy that I cannot leave the house for an hour or two,' said he--and she understood by his manner that he was 'putting his foot down,' in which case she knew she might just as well give in at once. 'But I warn ye that it's a dour river at the best, and not likely to be in good ply; however, we might just happen on one.' And then he added, by way of explanation, 'If we should, it will have to be sent to Lord Ailine, ye understand.'

'Why?'

'Because the river doesna belong to your fishing; it goes with the shooting.'

'Oh,' said she, somewhat coldly. 'And so, when Lord Ailine gives any one a day's fishing he claims whatever fish they may catch?'

'When his lordship gives a day's fishing he does not; but when the keeper does--that's different,' was the perfectly simple and respectful answer.

'Oh, I beg your pardon,' said she hastily, and sincerely hoping she had said nothing to wound his feelings. Apparently she had not, for he proceeded to warn her about the necessity of her putting on a thick pair of boots; and he also gently hinted that she might wear on her head something less conspicuous than the bright orange Tam o' Shanter of which she seemed rather fond.

Accordingly, next morning, instead of sending him a message that she was ready, she walked along to the cottage, accoutred for a thorough stiff day's work. The outer door was open, so she entered without ceremony; and then tapped at the door of the little parlour, which she proceeded to open also. She then found that Ronald was not alone; there was a young man sitting there, who instantly rose as she made her appearance. She had but a momentary glimpse of him, but she came to the conclusion that the gamekeepers in this part of the world were a good-looking race, for this was a strongly-built young fellow, keen and active, apparently, with a rather pink and white complexion, closely-cropped head, bright yellow moustache, and singularly clear blue eyes. He wore a plain tweed suit; and as he rose he picked up a billycock hat that was lying on the table.

'I'll see you to-night, Ronald,' said he, 'I'm going off by the mail again to-morrow.'

And as he passed by Miss Carry, he said, very modestly and respectfully--

'I hope you will have good sport.'

'Thank you,' said she, most civilly, for he seemed a well-mannered young man, as he slightly bowed to her in passing, and made his way out.

Ronald had everything ready for the start.

'I'm feared they'll be laughing at us for trying the river on so clear a day,' said he, as he put his big fly-book in his pocket. 'And there's been no rain to let the fish get up.'

'Oh I don't mind about that,' said she, as he held the door open, and she went out, 'it will be more interesting than the lake. However, I've nothing to say against the lake fishing, for it has done such wonders for my father. I have not seen him so well for years. Whether it is the quiet life, or the mountain air, I don't know, but he sleeps perfectly, and he has entirely given up the bromide of potassium. I do hope he will take the shooting and come back in the autumn.'

'His lordship was saying there were two other gentlemen after it,' remarked Ronald significantly.

'Who was saying?'

'His lordship--that was in the house the now when ye came in.'

'Was that Lord Ailine?' she said--and she almost paused in their walk along the road.

'Oh yes.'

'You don't say! Why, how did he come here?'

'By the mail this morning.'

'With the country people?'

'Just like anybody else,' he said.

'Well, I declare! I thought he would have come with a coach and outriders--in state, you know----'

'What for?' said he impassively. 'He had no luggage, I suppose, but a bag and a waterproof. It's different in the autumn, of course, when all the gentlemen come up, and there's luggage and the rifles and the cartridge-boxes--then they have to have a brake or a waggonette.'

'And that was Lord Ailine,' she said, half to herself; and there was no further speaking between them until they had gone past the Doctor's cottage and over the bridge and were some distance up 'the strath that Mudal laves'--to quote her companion's own words.

'Now,' said he, as he stooped and began to put together the slender grilse-rod, 'we'll just let ye try a cast or two on this bit of open grass--and we'll no trouble with a fly as yet.'

He fastened on the reel, got the line through the rings, and drew out a few yards' length. Then he gave her the rod; showed her how to hold it; and then stood just behind her, with his right hand covering hers.

'Now,' said he, 'keep your left hand just about as steady as ye can--and don't jerk--this way--

Of course it was really he who was making these few preliminary casts, and each time the line ran out and fell straight and trembling on the grass.

'Now try it yourself.'

At first she made a very bad job of it--especially when she tried to do it by main force; the line came curling down not much more than the rod's length in front of her, and the more she whipped the closer became the curls.

'I'm afraid I don't catch on quite,' she said, unconsciously adopting one of her father's phrases.

'Patience--patience,' said he; and again he gripped her hand in his and the line seemed to run out clear with the gentlest possible forward movement.

And then he put out more line--and still more and more--until every backward and upward swoop of the rod, and every forward cast, was accompanied by a 'swish' through the air. This was all very well; and she was throwing a beautiful, clean line; but she began to wonder when the bones in her right hand would suddenly succumb and be crunched into a jelly. The weight of the rod--which seemed a mighty engine to her--did not tell on her, for his one hand did the whole thing; but his grip was terrible; and yet she did not like to speak.

'Now try for yourself,' said he, and he stepped aside.

'Wait a minute,' she said--and she shook her hand, to get the life back into it.

'I did not hurt you?' said he, in great concern.

'We learn in suffering what we teach in song,' she said lightly. 'If I am to catch a salmon with a fly-rod, I suppose I have got to go through something.'

She set to work again; and, curiously enough, she seemed to succeed better with the longer line than with the short one. There was less jerking; the forward movement was more even; and though she was far indeed from throwing a good line, it was very passable for a beginner.

'You know,' said she, giving him a good-humoured hint, 'I don't feel like doing this all day.'

'Well, then, we'll go down to the water now,' said he, and he took the rod from her.

They walked down through the swampy grass and heather to the banks of the stream; and here he got out his fly-book--a bulged and baggy volume much the worse for wear. And then it instantly occurred to her that this was something she could get for him--the most splendid fly-book and assortment of salmon flies to be procured in London--until it just as suddenly occurred to her that he would have little use for these in Glasgow. She saw him select a smallish black and gold and crimson-tipped object from that bulky volume; and a few minutes thereafter she was armed for the fray, and he was standing by watching.

Now the Mudal, though an exceedingly 'dour' salmon-river, is at least easy for a beginner to fish, for there is scarcely anywhere a bush along its level banks. And there were the pools--some of them deep and drumly enough in all conscience; and no doubt there were salmon in them, if only they could be seduced from their lair. For one thing, Ronald had taken her to a part of the stream where she could not, in any case, do much harm by her preliminary whippings of the water.

She began--not without some little excitement, and awful visions of triumph and glory if she should really be able to capture a salmon by her own unaided skill. Of course she caught in the heather behind her sometimes; and occasionally the line would come down in a ghastly heap on the water; but then again it would go fairly out and over to the other bank, and the letting it down with the current and drawing it across--as he had shown her in one or two casts--was a comparatively easy matter. She worked hard, at all events, and obeyed implicitly--until alas! there came a catastrophe.

'A little bit nearer the bank if you can,' said he; 'just a foot nearer.'

She clenched her teeth. Back went the rod with all her might--and forward again with all her might--but midway and overhead there was a mighty crack like that of a horse-whip; and calmly he regarded the line as it fell on the water.

'The fly's gone,' said he--but with not a trace of vexation.

'Oh, Ronald, I'm so sorry!' she cried, for she knew that these things were expensive, even where they did not involve a considerable outlay of personal skill and trouble.

'Not at all,' said he, as he quietly sate down on a dry bunch of heather and got out his book again. 'All beginners do that. I'll just show ye in a minute or two how to avoid it. And we'll try a change now.'

Indeed she was in no way loth to sit down on the heather too; and even after he had selected the particular Childers he wanted, she took the book, and would have him tell her the names of all the various flies, which, quite apart from their killing merits, seemed to her beautiful and interesting objects. And finally she said--

'Ronald, my arms are a little tired. Won't you try a cast or two? I am sure I should learn as much by looking on.'

He did as he was bid; and she went with him; but he could not stir anything. The river was low; the day was clear; there was no wind. But at last they came to a part of the stream where there was a dark and deep pool, and below that a wide bed of shingle, while between the shingle and the bank was a narrow channel where the water tossed and raced before breaking out into the shallows. He drew her a little bit back from the bank and made her take the rod again.

'If there's a chance at all, it's there,' he said. 'Do ye see that stone over there?--well, just try to drop the fly a foot above the stone, and let it get into the swirl.'

She made her first cast--the line fell in a tangled heap about three yards short.

'Ye've got out of the way of it,' said he, and he took the rod from her, let out a little more line, and then gave it to her again, standing behind her, with his hand over-gripping hers.

'Now!'

The fly fell a foot short--but clean. The next cast it fell at the precise spot indicated, and was swept into the current, and dragged slowly and jerkily across. Again he made the cast for her, with the same negative result; and then he withdrew his hand.

'That's right--very well done!' he said, as she continued.

'Yes, but what's the use when you have tried----'

She had scarcely got the words out when she suddenly found the line held tight--and tighter--she saw it cut its way through the water, up and towards the bank of the pool above--and down and down was the point of the rod pulled until it almost touched the stream. All this had happened in one wild second.

'Let the line go!--what are ye doing, lassie?' he cried. The fact was that in her sudden alarm she had grasped both line and rod more firmly than ever; and in another half second the fish must inevitably have broken something. But this exclamation of his recalled her to her senses--she let the line go free--got up the rod--and then waited events--with her heart in her mouth. She had not long to wait. It very soon appeared to her as if she had hooked an incarnate flash of lightning; for there was nothing this beast did not attempt to do; now rushing down the narrow channel so close to the bank that a single out-jutting twig must have cut the line; now lashing on the edge of the shallows; twice jerking himself into the air; and then settling down in the deep pool, not to sulk, but to twist and tug at the line in a series of angry snaps. And always it was 'Oh, Ronald, what shall I do now?' or 'Ronald, what will he do next?'

'You're doing well enough,' said he placidly. 'But it will be a long fight; and ye must not let him too far down the stream, or he'll take ye below the foot bridge. And don't give him much line; follow him, rather.'

She was immediately called on to act on this advice; for with one determined, vicious rush, away went the salmon down the stream--she after him as well as her woman's skirts would allow, and always and valorously she was keeping a tight strain on the pliant rod. Alas! all of a sudden her foot caught in a tuft of heather--down she went, prone, her arms thrown forward so that nothing could save her. But did she let go the rod? Not a bit! She clung to it with the one hand; and when Ronald helped her to her feet again, she had no thought of herself at all--all her breathless interest was centred on the salmon. Fortunately that creature had now taken to sulking, in a pool farther down; and she followed him, getting in the line the while.

'But I'm afraid you're hurt,' said he.

'No, no.'