eeping face, to
blurt his secret in shaking sentences, or would let it slip out in an
indifferent tone, as one might speak of some common occurrence.
But Gilian, as he went, busied himself on how he should convey most
tellingly the story he brought down the glen. Should he lead up to his
news by gradual steps or give it forth like an alarum? It would be a
fine and rare experience to watch them for a little, as they looked and
spoke with common cheerfulness, never guessing why he was there, then
shock them with the intelligence, but he dare not let them think he
felt so little the weightiness of his message that his mind was ready
to dwell on trivialities. Should it be in Gaelic or in English he should
tell them? Their first salutations would be in the speech of the glens;
it would be, "Oh Gilian, little hero! fair fellow! there you are! sit
down and have town bread, and sugar on its butter," and if he followed
the usual custom he would answer in the same tongue. But between "_Tha
bean Lecknamban air falbh_" and "The wife of Ladyfield is gone," there
must be some careful choice. The Gaelic of it was closer on the feelings
of the event; the words some way seemed to make plain the emptiness of
the farmhouse. When he said them, the people would think all at once
of the little brown wrinkled dame, no more to be bustling about
the kitchen, of her wheel silent, of her foot no more upon the blue
flagstones of the milk-house, of her voice no more in the chamber where
they had so often known her hospitality. The English, indeed, when he
thought of it with its phrase a mere borrowing from the Gaelic, seemed
an affectation. No, it must be in the natural tongue his tidings should
be told. He would rap at the door hurriedly, lift the sneck before any
response came, go in with his bonnet in his hand, and say "_Tha bean
Lecknamban air falbh_" with a great simplicity.

And thus as he debated and determined in his mind, he was hastening
through a country that in another mood would be demanding his
attention almost at every step of the way. Ladyfield is at the barren
end of the glen--barren of trees, but rich in heather, and myrtle, and
grass--surrounded by full and swelling hills. The river, but for the
gluttonous sea that must be sucking it down, would choose, if it might,
to linger in the valley here for ever, and in summer it loiters on many
pretences, twining out and in, hiding behind Baracaldine and the bushes
of Tom-an-Dearc, and p