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Nor was more than the gentlest hint necessary to make Nicie remark, the next morning, that perhaps, if they went down again to the Lorrie, Donal might come, and bring the book. But when they reached the bank and looked across, they saw him occupied with Gibbie. They had their heads close together over a slate, upon which now the one, now the other, seemed to be drawing.
But they were no better on the other side, for the larches hid the meadow. They went down through them, therefore, to the bank of the little river the largest tributary of the Daur from the roots of Glashgar. "There he is!" cried Nicie. "I see him," responded Ginny, " with his cows all about the meadow." Donal sat a little way from the river, reading. "He's aye at 's buik!" said Nicie.
The path was after all a mere sheep-track, and led her at length into a lonely hollow in the hill-side, with a swampy peat-bog at the bottom of it. She stopped. The place looked unpleasant, reminding her of how she always felt when she came unexpectedly upon Angus Mac Pholp. She would go no further alone; she would wait till Nicie overtook her.
This went on and on, and they never looked up. Ginny would have gone home, and come again in the afternoon, but Nicie instantly called Donal. He sprang to his feet and came to them, followed by Gibbie.
"I wonder what book it is," said Ginny. "That wad be ill to say," answered Nicie. "Donal reads a hantle o' buiks mair, his mither says, nor she doobts he can weel get the guid o'." "Do you think it's Latin, Nicie?" "Ow! I daursay. But no; it canna be Laitin for, leuk! he's lauchin', an' he cudna dee that gien 'twar Laitin.
Then was the time for stories; and often in the long dark, while yet it was hours too early for bed, would Ginevra go with Nicie, who was not much of a raconteuse, to the kitchen, to get one of the other servants to tell her an old tale. For even in his own daughter and his own kitchen, the great laird could not extinguish the accursed superstition.
That first summer, Nicie returned to Glashruach to wait on Lady Galbraith, was more her friend than her servant, and when she married, was settled on the estate. For some little time Ginevra was fully occupied in getting her house in order, and furnishing the new part of it. When that was done, Sir Gilbert gave an entertainment to his tenants.
So, there sitting in peace, Nicie fell into a maidenly reverie, and so there Nicie sat for a long time, half dreaming in the great light, without once really thinking about anything. All at once she came to herself: some latent fear had exploded in her heart: yes! what could have become of her little mistress? She jumped to her feet, and shouted "Missie! Missie Galbraith!
The man 'at made the ballant, I daursay, thoucht him weel payed gien the bonny leddy said thank ye till him." "Oh! but, Donal, that wouldn't be enough! Would it, Nicie?" "But a serpent! a serpent's mouth, Nicie!"
Ever after she knew this, it seemed, as she listened, to come straight from the mountain to her window, with news of the stars and the heather and the sheep. They crossed the burn and climbed the opposite bank. Then Gibbie pointed, and there was the cottage, and there was Nicie coming up the path to it, with Oscar bounding before her! The dog was merry, but Nicie was weeping bitterly.
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