Part 2 (1/2)

Dugald started and stared about him in some trepidation as the prolonged and mournful shriek of an owl rose on the night air.

”It is only an owl,” said Kenneth, laughing.

”Ach! man,” said Dugald, ”it is not me that's afraid of an owlet, but goodness be about us, Kenneth, there are owls _and_ owls. Hus.h.!.+ there it goes again. Los.h.!.+ look how the dogs are shaking and trembling?”

It was true what Dugald had said; both the retriever and collie had thrown themselves at their masters' feet, and gave every indication of mortal dread. After all, it was merely owing to a kind of magnetic influence which fear always has. This had been communicated from Dugald to his dog, and from the retriever to the collie.

”It's nothing,” said Kenneth, ”nothing, Dugald. I'm not afraid, if you are.”

”Fear!” replied the stalwart Highland keeper. ”Dugald never feared the face o' clay. But look how they're shakin' yet. These dogs hear voices we cannot listen to and live; they see things that human eyes, dare not scan. Dinna deny it, Kenneth, lad; dinna seek to deny it.

”Do you remember, Kenneth, that dreary, dark December night two years ago, when Walie's wife--goodness be about us--went and hanged herself in the woods o' Alva, and how Shot there sat a' the livelong night on the top of the old turf wall and howled so mournfully? It made me tremble in my bed to hear him. And did you no' tell me that your Kooran did the same one night the year before last, and that next morning a hat and a stick were found on the brink o' Beattie's mill-dam, and poor Jock Grey's body stark and stiff--”

”Stop! stop!” cried Kenneth. ”This is no time of night for such stories. Kooran, come on.”

And the boy began to lead the way up through the garden to Nancy's door.

”Just a moment,” said Dugald, laying a hand on Kenneth's shoulder.

”Have you got your flute?”

”Yes.”

”Well, just give us a toot. If Nancy has company that's no' canny, it will give them time to bolt up the chimney. Sirs! Sirs!”

Kenneth laughed, put his flute together, and started a merry air.

”The Campbells are coming; hurrah, hurrah?” was the tune he played.

Dugald forgot his fear, and began to sing. The ”twa dogs” forgot theirs, and began to dance and caper and bark, and in the very middle of this ”rant” the cottage door opened, and Nancy herself appeared.

”Come in, come in, you twa daft laddies,” she cried, ”or 'deed you'll start Nancy hersel' to dance, for as auld as she is. Come in; you'll leave the dogs outside, winna ye, for fear o' my poor cat?”

”Ay, Grannie,” said Dugald, ”we'll leave the dogs outside, and I'm thinkin' neither o' them would show face inside your door if you asked them e'er so kindly. My Shot there hasn't forgotten the salute your cat gave him last time he came here. If you mind, Grannie, she jumped on his back and rode him a' round the kail-yard, and never missed him a whack, till he flew out o' the gate and ran helter-skelter o'er the moor. I dinna think your cat's canny, Grannie.”

”What a beautifu' nicht!” said Grannie; ”but come in, laddies.”

”You're sure you have no company?” said Dugald, still hesitating to enter.

”Come, ye stoopid loon,” she replied. ”There's n.o.body here but me and the cat. Sit doon. Tak' a stool, Kennie, my bonnie boy.”

A bonnie boy? Yes, there was no denying it. Kenneth, our hero, was a bonnie boy, and gave promise of growing up into a fine handsome man.

His broad blue bonnet was usually worn pretty far back, but even had he worn it forward, I do not think it would have been possible for it to suppress the wealth of dark short curls that rose up over his broad brown brow. His cheeks had the tint that health, the winds, and the sun had given them. His lips were rosy, and when he laughed he showed a set of teeth even and white, and a merry twinkle went upwards and danced about his dark, dark eyes. But at all other times those eyes were somewhat dreamy withal. Such was Kenneth McAlpine, and it was probably that same dreamy, thoughtful look in his eyes that made him appear older than he really was, for he had not yet seen his thirteenth year.

But there was one other reason to account for Kenneth's looking somewhat older than his years. He had already come through a good deal of grief.

His father had once been a prosperous crofter or small farmer. Not that the crofts in Glen Alva were very large or very wealthy, but, when well cultivated, the land was grateful and yielded up its fruits abundantly.

Then the sea was not very far away, only a few miles, and fish therein were abundant and to be had only for the catching.

It was the broad Atlantic Ocean whose waves broke and thundered ceaselessly on the rocky sh.o.r.e just beyond the hills yonder. Only two years ago--what long, long years they had seemed to Kenneth!--this lad had used to spend many an hour by the seash.o.r.e. Indeed, every hour that he could spare from school, or from home, he spent with the ocean.