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Updated: May 5, 2025
"A grain o' water," said she. "You will be liking it plain yourself, but I would aye be liking a little water after it. Many's the day have I been waiting for the coming of Bryde, the dear one, the limber lad, and I will be tholing yet a wee, for I will be seeing him before I will be going to my own place."
"Am I not the daft lassie?" said she, and started to the singing of merry airs; but before we saw the rowan-tree that grows on the face of the black hill, her songs were sad again. "He will be lonesome away there, Bryde," said she, looking back. "He will be looking for a lass one of these nights," said I, a little angry, "and there are bonny lasses here and there, between here and Scaurdale."
At that Margaret went out of the house, and in a while I saw her with Bryde, walking step for step with him on the lea he was breaking, and her hand would sometimes be beside his on the stilt of the plough.
Margaret McBride was on her knees, and her hand held in the fast grip of her man. They brought lanterns round us now, and I would have lifted Helen, for the dark stain on her back was growing and growing. "Let me be," she whispered; "I am happy." And then there came on the face of Bryde a slow smile, and his eyes opened wide.
The Laird of Scaurdale would have hindered his going, and Helen made much ado, but his horse was brought, and we came to the door to be seeing him off. There was a brave moon, and the hillside very plain, and the noise of the burn rumbling a fine night to be out. "I could be riding home too," said Margaret. Bryde slipped his boot from the stirrup.
"He would be all in his good claes," said the lad, "and the sword on him," and he told me how the two of them had carried a kist through the hill and down behind the Big House "there would still be a light in the young leddy's chamber," for Bryde McBride had stood looking at it, and talking in the Gaelic.
"Bryde, Hamish och, the limber lad. . . . Are you thinking it is all over wi' Betty, Hamish?" "Ay, Betty." "Well, it's no' give me a little spirits," said she, a look of indomitable courage on her face, and pursing her lips into a thin line. When I put the spirits into her hand she sipped a little, and coughed politely at the strength of it, and then turned herself towards me.
"Do you think I would be caring, Bryde, if he ran off if you were left with me?" Ah, she was brave in her loving, was the Flower of Nourn. Mirren McKinnon, that was once Mirren Stuart, was dowie that day, and her eyes red with greeting, for her son had gone to the sea, as his father had long ago.
And I would often be laughing at Margaret and her talk of milk, and fowls, and calves, and lambs, but she would be very serious. "A woman should be knowing these things, Hamish," she would say. But Belle was the slave of Margaret since the days when Hugh and Bryde and the little wild lass would be playing in the heather, and climbing for jackdaw's eggs or young rock-pigeons in Dun Dubh.
I am thinking I would maybe be like that myself, if the Lord had made me a boy." "Well, my lass, there's nane will deny that Bryde was a little that way himself he would aye have a quick eye for a likely lass from what I can mind." "Well," said she, being very merry and bold, and showing herself before me, "am not I a likely lass, Hamish, my dear?"
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