“It was made so.”
“Yes; but it is the sun. If a black cloud came over now, and it began to rain, the place would look so gloomy and miserable that you’d want to hurry home.”
“Yes; ta young Chief’s richt,” said Tavish, nodding his head. “It’s ta ferry wettest place I know when ta rain comes doon and ta wind will plow.”
“Let’s go on,” said Kenneth after awhile. “It gets more and more beautiful higher up.”
“It can’t be!” cried Max. “And is this all your father’s property?”
“Yes,” said Kenneth proudly; “this all belongs to The Mackhai.”
“Ant it will aal pelong to ta young Chief some tay, when he crows a pig man.”
Max went on with a sigh, but only to find that the place really did grow more beautiful as they climbed on, while the deep, humming roar grew louder and more awe-inspiring as they penetrated farther and farther into the recesses of the mountain. For the long and heavy rain had charged the fountains of the hills to bursting. Every lakelet was brimming, every patch of moss saturated, and from a thousand channels, that were at first mere threads, the water came rushing down to coalesce in the narrow glen, and eddy, and leap, and swirl, and hurry on toward the sea.
“Why are we climbing up so high?” said Max suddenly.
“To show you our glen, and take you up by the falls.”