With the approach of evening the fierce sun heat had ceased and a fresh cooling western breeze from the mountain passes brought welcome refreshment alike to the travelers and their beasts, wearied with their three days' drive.
“That is the last hill, Moira,” cried her sister-in-law, pointing to a long slope before them. “The very last, I promise you. From the top we can see our home. Our home, alas, I had forgotten! There is no home there, only a black spot on the prairie.”
Her husband grunted savagely and cut sharply at the bronchos.
“But the tent will be fine, Mandy. I just long for the experience,” said Moira.
“Yes, but just think of all my pretty things, and some of Allan's too, all gone.”
“Were the pipes burned, Allan?” cried Moira with a sudden anxiety.
“Were they, Mandy? I never thought,” said Cameron.
“The pipes? Let me see. No—no—you remember, Allan, young—what's his name?—that young Highlander at the Fort wanted them.”
“Sure enough—Macgregor,” said her husband in a tone of immense relief.
“Yes, young Mr. Macgregor.”