“My, but that is fine, Allan,” said his sister. “I should have grieved if we could not hear the pipes again among these hills. Oh, it is all so bonny; just look at the big Bens yonder.”
It was, as she said, all bonny. Far toward their left the low hills rolled in soft swelling waves toward the level prairie, and far away to the right the hills climbed by sharper ascents, flecked here and there with dark patches of fir, and broken with jutting ledges of gray limestone, climbed till they reached the great Rockies, majestic in their massive serried ranges that pierced the western sky. And all that lay between, the hills, the hollows, the rolling prairie, was bathed in a multitudinous riot of color that made a scene of loveliness beyond power of speech to describe.
“Oh, Allan, Allan,” cried his sister, “I never thought to see anything as lovely as the Cuagh Oir, but this is up to it I do believe.”
“It must indeed be lovely, then,” said her brother with a smile, “if you can say that. And I am glad you like it. I was afraid that you might not.”
“Here we are, just at the top,” cried Mandy. “In a minute beyond the shoulder there we shall see the Big Horn Valley and the place where our home used to be. There, wait Allan.”
The ponies came to a stand. Exclamations of amazement burst from Cameron and his wife.
“Why, Allan? What? Is this the trail?”
“It is the trail all right,” said her husband in a low voice, “but what in thunder does this mean?”
“It is a house, Allan, a new house.”
“It looks like it—but—”