"Tush, man," said the Laird, "ye smell o' my Lady's bower. Your forebears had the reek o' peats about them, or a waft o' ships. . . ."
But the road to Scaurdale would be drawing Hugh.
"It is Mistress Helen that will be having the dainty lad, Hugh, my dear," his sister would be flashing; "your folk would not be hanging so long at a lassie's coat-tails, if old stories will be true."
But he had an answer for her.
"What tails will Bryde be hanging at, my lass?"
"His plough-tail, my dainty lad," said Margaret, and laughed to be provoking him.
"Maybe ay, Meg," says he, "and maybe no."
It was not long after that when Margaret would be wheedling me to be on the hill.
"See, Hamish, my little brown horse is wearying for the air o' the hills and the spring water," and she would smile with her brows raised a little and her lips pouting.
When we were on the brow of the black hill—