"A . . . face, with its sweet spirit smiles,
Babe wonderings, and little tender ways."
* * * * *
"She brought Heaven to us just within the space
Of the dear depths of her large dream-like eyes."—Gerald Massey.
"Would I might give thee back, my little one,
But half the good that I have got from thee!"—H. Coleridge.
IT was a cold grey afternoon, when Jean arrived at her destination. She had travelled with Colonel Douglas as far as Edinburgh, then they parted company and she proceeded alone. In spite of her wraps and a well-heated carriage, Jean got colder and colder, and when at last she stepped out of the train, and encountered a bitter icy north wind which seemed to pierce her very bones, her spirits failed her entirely. It was a tiny station; bleak bare hills surrounded it, and no one seemed to be expecting her. She sorted out her luggage, and spoke to the stationmaster, who looked her up and down very thoughtfully.
"Ye'll be goin' up to Strathglen ye say? There be no carriage. I havna heard tell o' yer appearance."
This seemed to Jean to be the height of impertinence. She walked away from him and called a porter.
"Can you get me any conveyance to take me to Mrs. Gordon's?" she asked, and her voice faltered in spite of herself.
The man rubbed his chin meditatively, but made no reply.
"How far is it?" asked Jean impatiently. "Can I walk there?"
"I'll no be sayin' ye couldna, but 'tis ower lang for a delicate body."
"How many miles?"
"Weel, 'tis a mile an' a wee bit to St. Andrew's Cross, an' twa mile as the crow flies to Dyke Farm; but ye must allow for the steep descent to the Old Man's Head, an' 'twill be near on a mile after ye cross the turn pike—"