uckle oot o' a
very little, an' the best o' men are sadly troubled wi' a sair want. I
misdoot that Aydam maun hae missed mair nor the rib when he waukened."

My pleasant time in the cottage by the Garpel came all too soon to an
end. It is, indeed, a rare and heartsome place to bide in on a summer's
day. There is the sound of the birds singing, the plash of the water
into the pool beneath the Holy Linn, where the ministers held the great
baptizing of bairns, when the bonny burn water dropped of its own accord
on their brows as their fathers held them up. There are the leaves
rubbing against one another with a pleasant soughing noise. These kept
my heart stirring and content as long as I abode in the Glen of the
Garpel.

There is in particular one little hill with a flat top, from which one
may spy both up and down the Glen, yet be hidden under the leaves. Here
I often frequented to go, though Sandy warned me that this would be my
death. Yet I liked it best of all places in the daytime, and lay there
prone on my belly for many hours together, very content, chewing sorrel,
clacking my heels together, and letting on that I was meditating. But,
indeed, I never could look at water slipping away beneath me, without
letting it bear my thoughts with it and leave me to the dreaming. And
the Garpel is an especially pleasant burn to watch thus running from
you. I have had the same feelings in church when the sermon ran
rippleless and even over my head.

The only thing that annoyed me was that on the Sabbath days the Garpel
became a great place for lovers to convene. And above all, at one angle
behind Jean Gordon's cot, there is a bower planted with wild
flowers--pleasant and retired doubtless, for them that are equipped with
a lass. But as for me, I pleased myself by thinking that one day I
should shape to bring Maisie Lennox there to see my hiding-place, for,
as a little maid, she ever loved woods that rustle and waters that flow
softly. So chiefly on the Sabbath I kept close in my covert with a book;
but whether from motives of safety or envy, it misliketh me to tell.

CHAPTER XXXIII.

THE GARDENER OF BALMAGHIE.

I was wakened one morning by Jean coming to the side of my bed. She was
fully dressed, as if to receive company, and her tall and straight
figure looked imposing enough.

"Rise!" she said. "Rise! there's a chiel here, that wants ye to gang wi'
him."

"A chiel, Jean Gordon?" said I, in a sleepy kind of s