"Hill land," said he, "will only be growing hill grass," and he set his folk and he went himself and took the seeds from the hill grasses. Guid kens how long it took him, but he sowed his hill grasses with his corn, and the seeds came, as we say, and he cut it and threshed it with the flails; and after that he had hay-stacks in his yard, and his beasts were well done by, so that at the fair he got great prices both for stots and back-calvers. And, indeed, it was at the fair that first I saw the mettle in the boy, although his eyes had always dancing devils in them. There was much drink in these days, and the mainland dealers had not the head for it that the boys from the glens had. The young boys would be holding saddle beasts from the early morning and making the easy money. Aweel, on this fair day, Margaret the maid, the sister of Hugh, had craked and craked to be seeing the beasts and the ferlies, and her mother, the Lady, and her father, the Laird, were sore against it.
"I will be with Bryde, my cousin," said she; "and who will meddle me."
(I was clean forgotten.)
"He is not a real cousin, Margaret," said the mother.
"He is a fine lad; you will go, my lass," said the Laird, for blood was more to him than a stroke left-handed across a shield, and that day she rode with Hugh and me—Margaret, the Flower of Nourn. Tall she was and limber like a lance, her eyes like blue forget-me-nots that grow by the burn mhor, fearless and daring, with long black lashes. Her brown hair curled at her white neck, and her white chin was strong like a man's, but very soft and beautiful; her lips red, and her teeth like pearls.
She was silent for the most part on the road that day, though whiles she would be quizzing her brother about the lassies in the college town, for he had two years of the College at St Andrews. He was the great hand with the lassies by all accounts, Hugh, and many's the time his mother would be havering about them, but that man, my uncle, would wink as though he would be amused.
But when we passed McKelvie's Inn and saw old McKelvie there, stout and hearty, but very white about the head, and had a salutation from Ronald McKinnon thrang with the dealers, and Mirren not far off still sonsy—when we passed there I saw that Margaret was all trembling; and when we saw Bryde, tall and swarthy, coming to us, I saw the smiling in her eyes and her face aglow.
"What was that, my dear lass?" said I, looking at her.
"That would be my heart leaping," said she, with a laugh and a blush.
And Bryde lifted her from her little horse, and her hands were never tired to be touching him. She was all tremulous with laughter and eager-eyed, and the red was flaming in her cheeks, and she would be ordering Bryde like a queen, but pleadingly withal.
"You will stable my little horse," said she, and when Bryde, smiling down at her, took the bridle, "But—but I will be coming with you," she cried, "or surely you will be forgetting to halter him, or letting him run off and leave me," and as those two with the proud little horse moved to the inn, I saw her look up at the boy with all her heart in her eyes and her lips smiling a little pitifully.