"But wait a moment," she says.
She goes to the side of the road, where the great grey boulders, and ferns, and moist marsh-grass are, and begins to gather handfuls of "sourocks;" that is to say, of the smaller sheep's sorrel. "Who will partake of this feast to allay the pangs of hunger?"
"Is thy servant a baa-lamb that she should do this thing?" her hostess says, and drives the girl forward.
The inn is reached but in time; for behold there is a grey "smurr" of mist coming down the glen; and the rain is beginning to darken the grey boulders. And very welcome are those chairs, and the bread and cheese and beer, and the humble efforts in art around the walls. If the feast is not as the feasting of the Fishmongers—if we have no pretty boxes to carry home to the children—if we have no glimpses of the pale blue river and shipping through the orange light of the room, at least we are not amazed by the appearance of the Duke of Sussex in the garb of a Highlander. And the frugal meal is substantial enough. Then the question about getting back arises.
"Now, Mary," says her hostess, "you have got to pay for your amusement. How will you like walking seven or eight miles in a thunderstorm?"
But here the Laird laughs.
"No, no," he says, going to the window. "That waggonette that has just come up I ordered at the inn on passing. Ye will not have to walk a step, my lass; but I think we had better be going, as it looks black overhead."
Black enough, indeed, was it as we drove back in this silent afternoon, with a thunderstorm apparently about to break over our heads. And it was close and sultry when we got on board again, though there was as yet no wind. Captain John did not like the look of the sky.
"I said you were going to bring a gale with you, Angus," his hostess remarked to him, cheerfully, at dinner.
"It begins to look like it," he answered, gravely; "and it is getting too late to run away from here if the wind rises. As soon as it begins to blow, if I were John, I would put out the starboard anchor."