When Donald reached Edinburgh he wondered how he would see the maiden of whose beauty and of whose cleverness he had so often heard.
He had not long to wait, for he had scarce been a day in the city when he heard that a great ball was to be given and to be graced by the presence of the fair maiden whom he hoped to win as his bride.
Donald made up his mind that he too would go to the ball, and it was easy for him to do this, as there were many in the city who knew the young laird.
When he entered the ballroom he saw that the lords and nobles were dressed in suits of velvet or silk and satins, while he wore only his kilt of rough tartan.
The lords and ladies too stared at the tall handsome young Highlander in his strange garments, and some, who did not know him, forgot their good manners and smiled and nudged each other as he passed down the room.
But the young laird had no thought to spare for the crowd. He was making his way to the circle, in the midst of which stood Lizzie Lindsay. He had heard too often of the beautiful maiden not to be sure it was she as soon as his eyes fell upon her face.
Young Donald, in his homespun tartan, stood on the outskirt of the little crowd that surrounded her, listening. The lords in their gay suits were doing their utmost to win the goodwill of the maiden, but their flattery and foolish words seemed to give her little pleasure. Indeed she was too used to them to find them aught but a weariness.
Soon Donald was bowing before the maiden he had left his home to win, and begging her to dance with him. And something in the bright eyes and gallant bearing of young Donald pleased the petted maiden, and, despite his rough suit, she had nought but smiles for the young stranger from the Highlands.
The lords, in their silks and velvets, opened their eyes wide in astonishment as Lizzie glided past them with young Donald; the ladies smiled and flouted her, but the maiden paid no heed to their words or looks.
Donald was not flattering her as she was used to be flattered, he was telling her of the country in which he dwelt. And Lizzie as she listened heard the hum of the bees, smelt the fragrance of the heather. Nay, she even forgot the ballroom, and she was out on the silent moorland or climbing the steep mountains side by side with the young stranger whose face was so eager, whose eyes were so bright. She was stooping to pluck the wildflowers that grew in the nooks of some sheltered glen, or she was kilting her dainty gown and crossing the mountain streamlets, and ever the tall, young stranger was by her side.