Well, I went into the house and told them, and there was the tiravee; and Margaret like to go out at the rigging, for indeed she was a little spoiled. And Hugh it was that got the rough edge of her tongue, until "I will go and fetch him back," said he.
"You!" says she, "you! As well might the hoodie-craw bring back the kestrel," and at that the mother bridled.
"What kind of talk is this in my house?" said she, "and to your brother. Mend your manners, mistress. What is this fly-by-night (to say nothing worse) to you?"
"He will be all the man ever I will have," said Margaret, standing up, and her eyes flashing, and at that her father, roused by her bravery, laughed aloud.
"Capital," he cried, "capital,"—and then, "Hoot, my wee lass," said he, "you're young yet. Come away wi' me," and she went out with him, leaving us sitting mumchance.
"The best thing that could have happened," said the mistress, and made her way to the kitchen, for if things were not right she must have some work on her hands.
The very next day I made my way to the stable and found Margaret's horse gone.
"She is away like the devil spinning heather," said old Tam. "She'll be at Bothanairidh by noo," and so it was, for when I came to the farm on the moor there was Margaret, thrang at the talking to the halflin, and looking blither than I had thought to see her; and thinks I to myself, he will have been telling her about Bryde and the lighted window—and that I was right I know, although Margaret would never be telling me what it was that Bryde said that night; and the halflin I would not be asking, but I would be telling the lass about the three feet of blue steel in the lad's gizzard, and at that she would laugh at me.
"I will be giving him a golden guinea for every foot o' blue steel," said she, "and when I will have Bryde back he will be giving him the double of it, for telling me these good words," and I believe the daft lassie did just that.
But Belle would be fit for nothing but sitting and mourning. "Oh, why did I leave my own folk and the tents and the horses, the laughter o' the little ones, and the winding roads, to be left desolate on this weary moor—desolate, desolate, and mourning like the Israelitish women—the father is not, and now is the son gone from me."