“The morn was fair, the sky was clear,
No breath came o’er the sea,
When Mary left her Highland cot
And wandered forth with me.
Though flowers bedecked the mountain side,
And fragrance filled the vale,
By far the sweetest flower there
Was the Rose of Allendale.”
Then there was silence once again. The rower rowed more slowly now, but soon he beached his boat, and drew it up, and hid it by drawing it in among the rocks.
The stranger soon afterwards rose to go.
He had not proceeded many yards along the hillside, when, on rounding a gigantic cactus bush, and close beside it, he stood face to face with the oarsman.
The former lifted his hat to bow, but instead of replacing it on his head he dashed it on the ground, and springing forward, seized the other by the hand.
“Archie! Archie McCrane!” he cried; “is it possible you do not know me, that you have forgotten Kenneth McAlpine?”
Poor Archie! for a moment or two he could not speak.
“Man!” he said at last, in deep, musical Doric; “is it possible it is you, Kennie?”
The tears were blinding him, both hearts were full, and they said no more for many seconds, merely standing there under the cactus tree holding each other’s hands.
“God has heard my prayer,” said Kenneth at last.