That same forenoon Craig called at Bilberry Hall. He was dressed for the hill in a dark tweed kilt, with a piece of leather on his left shoulder.
He had early luncheon with McLeod, Annie presiding. In her pretty white bodice she never looked more lovely. So thought Craig.
“Annie, come to the hill with me. Do.”
“Annie, go,” added her uncle.
“Well, I’ll go, and bring you some birds, uncle dear, and Sandie shall ghillie me.”
“I have a ghillie,” said Craig.
“Never mind. Two are better than one.”
They had really a capital day of it, for the sun shone brightly and the birds laid close.
Gordon setters are somewhat slow, and need a drink rather often, but they are wondrous sure, and Bolt, the retriever, was fleet of foot to run down a wounded bird. So just as the sun was sinking behind the forests of the west, and tingeing the pine trees with crimson, they wended their way homeward, happy—happy with the health that only the Highland hills can give.