All around her lay the lifeless stretches of heather and grey crag. Near her side gurgled a little stream passing through the trees and down the vacant, wine-red moor. Behind her the stark, open slope of brae, around her the huddle of lonely hills, and no sound at all.
The softest noise, like the rustle of an autumn leaf, made her turn her head. Within a few feet of her, regarding her keenly, stood Muckle John. Where he had come from, and how he had come, she did not attempt to guess.
"Well," said he, "and how's Mistress Macpherson the day?"
"Finely."
"And the little business?"
"Is completed."
"Good!" he said, and smiled with great good humour.
"I handed Rob your letter."
"And did he tak' my meaning?"
"He said I was to thank ye, and give ye this bit o' paper, which he tore from your message."