ave been forgetting, Margaret?" said I.

"Oh--oh," says she, her face all suffused, "it will just be about a pup
he was to be bringing me. . . ."

At that I took her with me. "Pup," said I; "pup, Margaret. What tale
is this?"

"Cat or dog, or--or anything," she cried. "I am wanting him."

Bryde was at his horse's girths, and old Tam with a lanthorn.

"Bryde," cried the lass, "I am wanting you."

He had the horse out by this time, and I went away a little, but I
heard her say--

"You never kissed my hand, sir--no, not in all your life."

"No, Mistress Margaret," said the boy.

"But why, why, why?" said she, and I laughed to see her stamp.

"Ye see," said he, and mounted, then bending over his saddle, "Ye see,
my dear, I was loving your hand all that time," and the clatter of his
horse's feet on the cobbles brought me to my senses.

"Pup," said I.

"But, Hamish," whispered the lass, "I am wanting him."

"For what now?"

"I am wanting him _to keep_," said she, and put her head against my
arm--the brave lass.

CHAPTER XIX.

THE RIDERS ON THE MOOR.

I would be seeing very little of Bryde for many a day after that, for
there was aye work to be doing at his hill farm, and hard work will be
bringing sound sleep.

But Hugh was become the great gallant, with old Tam rubbing his
stirrups with sand from the sand-brae, that and wet divots, till the
irons shone like silver.

"Hoch-a-soch," he would say, "the young Laird is ta'en wi' the weemen.
I will be at the polishing o' his horse's shoes next, and it iss the
fine smells he will be haffin' on his claes--fine smells for the
leddies, yess."

"Tush, man," said the Laird, "ye smell o' my Lady's bower. Your
forebears had the reek o' peats about them, or a waft o' ships. . . ."

But the road to Scaurdale would be drawing Hugh.

"It is Mistress Helen that will be having the dainty lad, Hugh, my
dear," his sister would be flashing; "your folk would not be hanging so
long at a lassie's coat-tails, if old stories will be true."

But he had an answer for her.

"What tails will Bryde be hanging at, my lass?"

"His plough-tail, my dainty lad," said Margaret, and laughed to be
provoking him.

"Maybe ay, Meg," says he, "and maybe no."

It was not long after that when Margaret would be wheedling me to be on
the hill.

"See, Hamish, my little brown horse is wearying for the air o' the
hills and the spring water," and she would smile with her brows ra