'I suppose so.'
'Well, I don't think I ever saw any place in our country looking quite so lonely as that,' she said, regarding the voiceless solitudes of wood and hill and crag. 'Seems as if with us there was always some one around—camping out, or something—but I dare say in Dacotah or Idaho you would get lonelier places than this even. Well, now, what do they call it?' she asked, as an afterthought.
'What?—the strath here?'
'Yes.'
'I suppose they would call it part of Strath-Naver.'
The mere mention of Strath-Naver struck a chill to her heart. It recalled to her how she had betrayed him by sending those harmless verses across the Atlantic, and subjecting them to the insolence of a nincompoop's patronage. And if Ronald should ever get to know? Might not some busybody send him a copy of the paper? These Scotch people had so many relatives and friends all through the States. Or perhaps his brother in Glasgow might have some correspondent over there? She dared not look him in the face, she felt so guilty; and once or twice she was almost on the point of confessing everything, and begging for his forgiveness, and getting him to promise that he would not read the article should it ever be sent to him.
And then it occurred to her as a very strange thing that from the moment of Ronald's appearance that morning at the loch-side until now she had never even given a thought to what had caused her so much annoyance the day before. His very presence seemed to bring with it an atmosphere of repose and safety and self-confidence. When she had seen him go stalking by on the previous night, she had instantly said to herself—'Oh, that is not the kind of man to worry about what is said of him.' And this morning, when he came down to the boat, she had never thought of him as a criticised and suffering poet, but as—well, as the Ronald that all of them knew and were familiar with—self-reliant, good-natured, masterful in his way, and ever ready with a laugh and a song and a jest, save when there was any young lady there, to make him a little more demure and respectful in his manner. Ronald a disappointed poet?—Ronald suffering agony because a two-for-a-quarter kind of a creature out there in Chicago did not think well of him? She ventured to lift her eyes a little. He was not looking her way at all. He was regarding the shore intently; and there was a quiet and humorous smile on the hard-set, sun-tanned face.
'There are six—seven—blackcocks; do ye see them?'
'Oh yes; what handsome birds they are!' she said, with a curious sense of relief.
'Ay,' said he, 'the lads are very friendly amongst themselves just now; but soon there will be wars and rumours of wars when they begin to set up house each for himself. There will be many a pitched battle on those knolls there. Handsome? Ay, they're handsome enough; but handsome is as handsome does. The blackcock is not nearly as good a fellow as the grousecock, that stays with his family, and protects them, and gives them the first warning cry if there's danger. These rascals there wander off by themselves, and leave their wives and children to get on as they can. They're handsome—but they're ne'er-do-weels. There's one thing: the villain has a price put on his head; for a man would rather bring down one old cock thumping on the grass than fill his bag with gray hens.'