And when Margaret would have comforted her, "Are not you of the same folk, maiden?" she cried, turning her eyes bright and hard and dry on the lass, "the same cruel proud breed"; and then again, "He was a good son—there never was woman blessed with such a son, kind and brave and loving, the very beasts would come to his whistle."
"But this will not be the finish," said I; "the dogs are not howling," and at that old Betty brisked herself.
"Yess, yess, the dogs will not be greeting Belle, woman, and that is a sure sign," said she, wonderfully cheered. "Bryde will be coming back a great man, and bringing old Betty a silk dress and good whisky—yess."
"Where is Fowey, Hamish?" said Margaret.
"On the coast of England, a place the smugglers frequent," said I.
"Bryde will be with the smuggling laads," cried Betty, clapping her hands. "Is he not the brisk lad, and he will be bringing the whisky sure—maybe it will be brandy moreover."
And we left them a little cheered that day, and Margaret still looked happy with her thoughts.
It was in October, the fair day, that Mistress Helen came to visit
Margaret, and Hugh had carried her the news of Bryde's going.
"Your cousin has gone to his tall ships," said she to Margaret, "the tall ships and the black cannon and the cutlasses, you remember, ma belle."
"Bryde has gone away truly," said Margaret, and then the two retired to their confidences. But the next day it was that Margaret told me of the meeting by the ford.