But there was no end to her kindness for Margaret.

"It was in me that you would be coming, mo leanabh, fresh and beautiful
like the bloom on the hawthorn, a maiden of the morning, bringing gifts
in her hands."

So I left them in the house, and tried my hand at the building of the
peats till I was seeing that the traill was well contented to be
sitting watching me and doing nothing; and at that I left the rick, for
I cannot put up with idleness; besides, I was not making a very good
hand at the building. When I put my head into the room again, Mhari
nic Cloidh was thrang at the talking in a droll sing-song voice, and
this was the air of it--

"The word will come over the water--soon it will be coming--ay,
soon--there will be one coming from the sea."

Now I was jalousing that Margaret was like the lave of lassies, very
keen to be at the probing into the future, a thing that is not canny to
be having any belief in, and not in accordance with the Scriptures; but
for all that--

"What havers was it the old one would be telling you, and me outside at
the peats?"

"She will be getting old and thinking droll thoughts, Hamish--just old
wives' havers, about the crops and the wars that will be coming. . . ."

"And the word from the sea, Margaret? Will that be news of a battle
maybe?"

"I am not sure I was understanding that," said she, looking away. "I
am thinking that would be not anything at all," but I could see her
hiding a smile.

"I am hoping there is no harm come to Bryde," said I, "and the word
coming home on a ship."

At that the sly smile (for it was sly) was quick to vanish from the
lass's face, and she turned to me then.

"I am hating you when you croak like a raven, wishing evil," she
cried--"there will be no harm to Bryde. I will be having news of him
soon, and I will be going on a journey with him. . . ."

"Well, my lass, could you not have been telling me" (for she was angry
and nearly weeping), "instead of talking about crops and wars," said I.

"Are you not always telling me it is havers," she cried out, "and not
for sensible folk to be listening to, and putting belief in. I am
thinking you are worse than me," and at that she left me in a fine
flare of temper.

* * * * * *

Now on the shore from Bealach an sgadan till you come well below the
rise of the hill of the fort there is a roughness of grass and sprits
that will put a fine skin on grazing beasts,