Andrew laughed his quiet pleased laugh.
“Weel, lass,” he said, “the duin’ o’ ae thing ’s better nor the un’erstan’in’ o’ twenty. Nor wull ye be lang ohn un’erstan’t muckle ’at’s dark to ye noo; for the maister likes nane but the duer o’ the word, an’ her he likes weel. Be blythe, lass; ye s’ hae yer fill o’ un’erstan’in’ yet!”
“I’m fain to believe ye speyk the trowth, Anerew!”
“It’s great trowth,” said Donal.
CHAPTER XII.
THE CASTLE.
The next morning came a cart from the castle to fetch his box; and after breakfast he set out for his new abode.
He took the path by the river-side. The morning was glorious. The sun and the river and the birds were jubilant, and the wind gave life to everything. It rippled the stream, and fluttered the long webs bleaching in the sun: they rose and fell like white waves on the bright green lake; and women, homely Nereids of the grassy sea, were besprinkling them with spray. There were dull sounds of wooden machinery near, but they made no discord with the sweetness of the hour, speaking only of activity, not labour. From the long bleaching meadows by the river-side rose the wooded base of the castle. Donal’s bosom swelled with delight; then came a sting: was he already forgetting his inextinguishable grief? “But,” he answered himself, “God is more to me than any woman! When he puts joy in my heart, shall I not be glad? When he calls my name shall I not answer?”
He stepped out joyfully, and was soon climbing the hill. He was again admitted by the old butler.
“I will show you at once,” he said, “how to go and come at your own will.”
He led him through doors and along passages to a postern opening on a little walled garden at the east end of the castle.