flashed diamonds. Truelove stood upon the bank, and, with her hand
shading her eyes, watched MacLean rowing toward her up the creek.

When he had fastened his boat and taken her hand, the two walked soberly
on beside the sparkling water until they came to a rude seat built beneath
an oak-tree, to which yet clung a number of brown leaves. Truelove sat
down, drawing her cloak about her, for, though the sun shone, the air was
keen. MacLean took off his coat, and kneeling put it beneath her feet. He
laughed at her protest. "Why, these winds are not bleak!" he said. "This
land knows no true and honest cold. In my country, night after night have
I lain in snow with only my plaid for cover, and heard the spirits call in
the icy wind, the kelpie shriek beneath the frozen loch. I listened; then
shut my eyes and dreamed warm of glory and--true love."

"Thy coat is new," said Truelove, with downcast eyes. "The earth will
stain the good cloth."

MacLean laughed. "Then will I wear it stained, as 'tis said a courtier
once wore his cloak."

"There is lace upon it," said Truelove timidly.

MacLean turned with a smile, and laid a fold of her cloak against his dark
cheek. "Ah, the lace offends you,--offends thee,--Truelove. Why, 'tis but
to mark me a gentleman again! Last night, at Williamsburgh, I supped with
Haward and some gentlemen of Virginia. He would have me don this suit. I
might not disoblige my friend."

"Thee loves it," said Truelove severely. "Thee loves the color, and the
feel of the fine cloth, and the ruffles at thy wrists."

The Highlander laughed. "Why, suppose that I do! Look, Truelove, how brave
and red are those holly berries, and how green and fantastically twisted
the leaves! The sky is a bright blue, and the clouds are silver; and think
what these woods will be when the winter is past! One might do worse,
meseems, than to be of God's taste in such matters."

Truelove sighed, and drew her gray cloak more closely around her.

"Thee is in spirits to-day, Angus MacLean," she said, and sighed once
more.

"I am free," he answered. "The man within me walks no longer with a
hanging head."

"And what will thee do with thy freedom?"

The Highlander made no immediate reply, but, chin in hand, studied the
drifts of leaves and the slow-moving water. "I am free," he said at last.
"I wear to-day the dress of a gentleman. I could walk without shame into
a hall that I know, and find there strangers, standers in dead m