He was very happy and contented, and so too was Peggy, for she presently threw down her book to talk, and both of them began to build many a beautiful castle in the air.
“My idea of happiness,” the boy concluded, “would be to build a house in such a fairy glade as this, and you could come if you liked, Peggy, but every day I would sally forth with my merry, merry men to fish in the lake, and awake the echoes of the forest with my hunting horn, but return at night to dine and to sleep under the greenwood tree.”
Peggy shook her wise wee head.
“Wouldn’t it be just a trifle uncomfortable when the snow fell, Johnnie?”
“Ah! but then we should have music and mirth in the great halls and drink horns of wassail by the roaring log-fires! I know I should be happy.”
By the time the sun was sinking low towards the horizon they were back again in camp.
But the next day and the day after that found them back again at that lonesome tarn which somehow seemed to have a great charm for both of them. And it was on this particular day that the adventure I am about to relate befell the romantic twain.
They had lingered longer by the loch side than usual, for not the breath of a breeze ruffled its surface, and the trout seemed to slumber below.
But they made small baskets at last, and taking their rods to pieces gave them to the ghillie to carry, and set forth now for the forest.
So intent were both on the discussion of the meal they had brought with them and the trout, roasted gipsy fashion over a fire of wood, that they noticed not the rising clouds and gathering gloom, until suddenly a flash of lightning seemed to extinguish the flames and rolling thunder reverberated through the woods, re-echoed back from hill and rock. Flash after flash, peal after peal, and then fell a darkness like a winter’s eve.