Part 13 (1/2)

So Jessie went away, with many a promise to come again when he was stronger, and could play soft melodies on the flute,--melodies, she said, that made her feel she wanted to cry, but that she loved all the same.

Jessie went away. She had found the boy on this bright lovely spring morning but a boy; she left him a man at heart.

Archie came and sat by him, and recommenced his tales of mountain and moorland and forest. He told him of the fairy knoll and the smugglers'

cave, about the heather, now so green and promising, about early lambs, and all the little incidents of life in the hills. Kenneth listened, but his thoughts were far away.

These glens and wilds, dearly though he loved them, were not all the world. The poets and writers that had so charmed him hitherto, and served to throw a glamour of romance over the beautiful land in which he lived--Burns, Ossian, Tannahill, Campbell, Scott, and the Ettrick Shepherd,--they had made him love it, oh! so dearly love it, with that burning, pa.s.sionate patriotism which only the heart can feel.

”That beats beneath a Scottish plaid.”

But--had he not been living too much in the past? was there not a power setting in that was threatening to tear Scotland from the hands of the Scotch? Ought he to stay among these mountains and dream dreams, instead of going out into the world beyond to work or fight for the dear land that gave him birth? Ought he not to try even to gather wealth for the sake of those he would leave behind?

Clouds were gathering over the glen. A foreigner was soon to take possession of it, with no more love for the soil than if the heather that grew on every acre of it had not been dyed a hundred times over with the blood of the hero and the patriot. Could he stay at home and see his father's grave, poor old Nancy's too, levelled?

His thin hands covered his face, the boy sobbed quietly, and the tears trickled through his fingers.

CHAPTER NINE.

THE STORM CLOUD BURSTS OVER THE GLEN.

”When simmer comes smilin' o'er mountain and lea, The green haughs and glens are pleasant to see, And pleasant the hum o' the merry wild bee, When the rose, when the rose and lily are blawin'.

An' blithely the mavis salutes the gay morn As sweetly he sings on the snawy white thorn, While the laverock soars high o'er the lang yellow corn, And the moorc.o.c.ks, the moorc.o.c.ks are cheerily crawin'.”

Old Song.

Scene: Summer once more on hill and glen. On the mountain brow, the heather is bursting into bloom and bee-haunted. Down in the lower lands the corn is growing long and green, mingled with orange of marigold and crimson blush of wild poppy, and the meadows snowed over with gowan and scented clover. Fish leap gladly in stream and tarn, the lofty pines wave their dark plumes in the sunny air, and every wood and copse is filled with melody.

A right merry party are returning from the rocks by the seash.o.r.e, where they have spent hours in wandering and wondering, for they found something new to admire at every turn.

Jessie is here with her governess and Miss Grant, and Kenneth strong and well again, to say nothing of Kooran and Shot, and last--probably least--Archie McCrane.

They have gained the brow of a hill overlooking the wide Atlantic. Far beneath them the sea-birds are wheeling and shrieking among the rocks, while out on the sea's blue breast is many a little white sail, some so far, far away that though they have three masts, and must therefore be mighty s.h.i.+ps, they seem from here not a bit bigger than a sixpenny piece.

Little Jessie is looking radiant and lovely, Kenneth gallant and gay, and everybody else, always including the dogs, as healthy and happy as the summer's day is long.

Well, no wonder. They have spent such a gloriously pleasant day.

They took lunch with them to eat at sea. Yes, at sea, for old Duncan Reed took them out to the island and far beyond it, and Kenneth was proud on the whole to exhibit his skill as an oarsman. And Duncan had not hesitated to tell the ladies that he--Duncan Reed--had taught the boy all he knew about boating and fis.h.i.+ng too.

The ladies were delighted with Duncan, especially Miss Gale, to whom he was something quite new. She must even sketch the little old man leaning there on his oar in his s.h.i.+rt-sleeves and night-cap, and Duncan was so delighted when he saw it, that his old eyes sparkled like the inside of an oyster-sh.e.l.l.

He shared the luncheon, and when they landed they went to his strange house, with the boat for a roof, and there he made them tea, although there were not cups for all, and Duncan himself had to drink his out of a mug.

But there really was more in this little old fisherman than might at first appear. Anyhow he astonished Miss Gale by his recitations of Ossian's poems, both in the ancient Gaelic, and in English. Even Jessie, child though she was, experienced a thrill of indefinable pleasure as she listened to the rise and fall of the measured words, the magic of the wondrous verse, rolling out from the lips of this little old man, who looked so wild and weird, and mingling with the dull roar of the breaking waves.

The child never forgot it.

And now the little party stood on the hill overlooking the sea, and a walk of two miles took them, after a rest, to the fairy glen. But Archie, while they rested, had run on before, for everybody was coming to the cave, and Archie must see that it was neat and tidy.

There were freshly pulled ferns or brackens laid down as a carpet for the cave, and seats constructed out of the blooming heather. While making these Kenneth was thinking all the time about Jessie, and about how her eyes would sparkle when she saw these.