ughie Kerr brings it over the hill from the howe of the
Kells. We have had no want of good meal."

Then when we had talked and I had told her of her father and his
welfare, I bethought me to urge her to bide where she was, for that
night at all events, saying that perhaps in the morning she might come
over to see him. For I desired, seeing that the place was no longer safe
(if, indeed, the persecutors did know where Anton was hid, which I
believed not), to have him shifted as soon as he could bear the journey.
But yet I was loath to do it, for there is no hold in all the high
hill-lands so commodious as Cove Macaterick above the loch of that name.

When Kate McGhie came again to us, methought she looked more approvingly
upon me than before--but indulgently, as one that passes an indifferent
piece of work, which yet she herself could better have performed.

As soon as she came near, I began to ask her of Maisie's accident and
the cause of it.

"Has she not told you herself? I am not going to heat cauld porridge for
you twa to sup," she said, in the merry way which never deserted her.
For she was ever the most spirity wench in the world, and though a
laird's daughter, it pleased her often to speak in the country fashion.

But when I had advertised her that Maisie had not said a word about the
matter, but on the contrary had referred me to herself, Kate McGhie made
a pretty mouth and gave a little whistle.

"After all, then," she said, "we are not round the corner yet!"

Then she began to tell me of their journeying in the night after
Pherson, the serving-man, had left them.

"We cam' over the heather licht foot as hares," said Kate McGhie. "The
stars were bonny above. A late moon was rising over the taps by
Balmaclellan, and the thocht that I was out on the heather hills set a
canty fire in my breast.

"A' gaed richt till we cam' to the new brig across the Water o' Dee,
that was biggit a year or twa syne wi' the collections in the kirks.
When we cam' to it we were liltin' blythe and careless at a sang, when
oot o' the dark o' the far side there steps a muckle cankersome lookin'
man in a big cloak, an' stan's richt in the midst o' the road!

"'Whaur gang ye sae late at nicht by this road withoot the leave o'
Mardrochat?' says he.

"'Sang,' says I. 'Wha's midden's this? And wha's Mardrochat that his
barn-door cock craws sae croose on til't?'

"For," said Kate McGhie, looking at me, "as ye ken, I hadna been lear