“Nan, Nan,” he cried, “could we not be here, you and I, alone together for ever?”
The gaudy bubble of her expectation burst; she released herself from his grasp with “John Hielan’-man! John Hielan’man!” in her mind.
“And was that Miss Mary’s question? I thought she was a more sensible friend to both of us.”
“Never a better,” said he. “She offered her all and——”
“What!” cried Nan, anger flaring in her face, “are you in the market too?”
He stammered an excuse.
“It was not a gift,” said he, “but to you and me; and that, indeed, was as much as Old Islay meant, to give him his due.”
“Old Islay, Old Islay!” she repeated, turning her face from him to hide its sudden remorse. “Islay, Islay,” she repeated to herself. He noticed the hand she leaned upon, so soft, so white, so beautiful, trembled in its nest among the heather. He was so taken up with it there among the heather, so much more beautiful than the fairest flower, that he did not notice how far he had given up his secret.
He caught the hand and fondled it, and still she repeated to herself like a coronach, “Islay, Islay.” For once more the rude arm was round her waist in Maam, and the bold soldier was kissing her on the lips.
Gilian stood up and “Oh!” he cried, as he looked from her to the landscape, and back from the landscape to her again, “Oh!” he cried, “I wondered, when you were gone in Edinburgh, what was wanting here. When Miss Mary told me you were come home, I felt it was the first time the sun had shone, and the birds had found a song.”