f an acre of land was even in her mind at all. But
it would not do to be telling that to a man that would just have left
his trysted wife.

When Margaret had the word there were tears standing in her eyes.

"I am wondering if there would be something to leap up when Helen
promised herself to our Hugh," said she.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

IN WHICH BETTY COMPLAINS OF GROWING-PAINS.

It was the Halflin that brought me word that Betty was not so well, and
would I be coming to see her.

"What is her complaint?" said I.

"It iss the growing-pains, in her old legs, and in the top of her
oxters--wild, bad, ay, terrible bad."

There was a great change in the old one, it seemed to me, when I was
seeing her. She would be so very wee-looking in her bed, and her
spirits so low. She looked at the lotions and mixtures I had fetched
with me, and then shook her head sadly, and cried in the Gaelic, "The
hour of my departure is come. Hamish, Hamish, is the whisky to be not
any more use?"

"There are the good words I could be saying," says she in a whisper,
"but the minister is no' for them."

"Whatna good words?"

"Och, chust to be calling on the saints, St Peter and St Paul--mora,
but Paul wass the lad," and she brisked up a wee at that, and
whispered, "There are them I could be naming, Hamish, that St Paul
would be curing. Ay, bodies and beasts I have seen the good words
working a cure on, but wae's me, Hamish, I will never be hearing the
cuckoo again. I am loath to part wi' this bonny place, calm and
peaceful for a body's old age, and I will be missing the fine smell of
the grass when it will be newly cut, and the clink of the stones on the
cutting-hooks."

"Well, Betty, it will be the road we all must go at the hinder end--a
fine road, Betty, from the point at the Gorton to the Island; for it
was in her mind to be in the old burial-ground, and you will be lying
there among your folk, on yon holy place, with the sun beating down and
the cool blue sea at your feet, and all the friends sitting on the
Mount of Weeping above the Brae, thrang at the greeting; and maybe on
an east-wind night the spirit of ye will be hearing the rattle of
halyards and the plash of the anchors, when the boats come in for
shelter--and Bryde's among them. . . ."

"Bryde, Hamish--och, the limber lad. . . . Are you thinking it is all
over wi' Betty, Hamish?"

"Ay, Betty."

"_Well, it's no'_--give me a little spirits," said she, a look of