“Indeed, sir,” he told McLeod, “I’ll just get on the same as I did before I got the wife. My kail-yard’s but small as yet, and it’ll be little trouble to dig and rake in the evening.”
“Very well, Sandie. Help yourself to a glass there.”
Sandie needed no second bidding. He was somewhat of an enthusiast as far as good whisky was concerned; perfectly national, in fact, as regarded the wine of “poor auld Scotland.”
Nearly three years passed away. The ship had not returned. She never would, nor could.
Chapter Nine.
A Bolt from the Blue.
Nearly three years! What a long, lonesome time it had been for Annie! Yet she still had somewhat of hope—at times, that is.