As he toiled up the hill the wind was rising in angry squalls and after awhile the rain ceased and a large break began to open in the clouds, letting the grey light through.
The burn, along whose banks Hamish was making his way, was coming down tumultuously, bearing with it bits of stick, clods of earth, and other rubbish. Once or twice Hamish fancied he saw a bit of white paper whirl past, but it was carried down stream before he could reach it.
At last he reached the hollow where Gibbie's little dwelling was situated. Just above there was a little cascade, and the swollen waters, coming down with a rush, overflowed their banks and flooded the lair, sweeping out a quantity of straw mixed with scraps of paper.
Hamish plunged into the stream and caught straw, papers and all in his arms.
A shout from the lair made him look round, and there stood Gibbie, soaked with wet, and plastered with mud from head to foot.
'You must not be touching these,' cried the lad; 'they're for Neil, all for Neil!'
'All right, Gibbie,' said Hamish tranquilly; 'you can give them to Neil as soon as you like, I was only keeping them from being carried away.'
'Who told you I had seen Neil?' asked the lad craftily; 'Andrew said I was not to tell any one, and I'm not going to say he is here; only the nice gorjo in dark blue clothes asked me and I told him.'
'Ah, did you tell him?' said Hamish, speaking quietly, but trembling between the fear of asking too much or too little; 'and when did you see Mrs. MacAlister last?'
A sly expression passed over the lad's face.