" gasped "Lily."

"Oh, never mind him, Mr. Martin! Come, 'Lily' dear, I'll explain it to
you on the way home. Good-night, Mr. Dunn; we've had a jolly evening.
And as for our friend Cameron, I've ceased to pity him; on the contrary,
I envy him his luck."

CHAPTER VII

FAREWELL TO CUAGH OIR

Once more the golden light of a sunny spring day was shining on the
sapphire loch at the bottom, and overflowing at the rim of the Cuagh
Oir. But for all its flowing gold, there was grief in the Glen--grief
deep and silent, like the quiet waters of the little loch. It was seen
in the grave faces of the men who gathered at the "smiddy." It was heard
in the cadence of the voices of the women as they gathered to "kalie"
(Ceilidh) in the little cottages that fringed the loch's side, or dotted
the heather-clad slopes. It even checked the boisterous play of the
bairns as they came in from school. It lay like a cloud on the Cuagh,
and heavy on the hearts that made up the little hill-girt community of
one hundred souls, or more.

And the grief was this, that on the "morrow's morn" Mary Robertson's son
was departing from the Glen "neffer to return for effermore," as Donald
of the House farm put it, with a face gloomy as the loch on a dark
winter's day.

"A leaving" was ever an occasion of wailing to the Glen, and many a
leaving had the Glen known during the last fifty years. For wherever
the tartan waved, and the bonnie feathers danced for the glory of the
Empire, sons of the Glen were ever to be found; but not for fifty years
had the heart of the Glen known the luxury of a single rallying centre
for their pride and their love till the "young chentleman," young Mr.
Allan, began to go in and out among them. And as he grew into manhood so
grew their pride in him. And as, from time to time, at the Great Games
he began to win glory for the Glen with his feats of skill and strength,
and upon the pipes, and in the dances, their pride in him grew until
it passed all limits. Had he not, the very year before he went to the
college, cut the comb of the "Cock of the North" from Glen Urquhart,
in running and jumping; and the very same year had he not wrested
from Callum Bheg, the pride of Athole, the coveted badge of Special
Distinction in Highland Dancing? Then later, when the schoolmaster would
read from the Inverness Courier to one group after another at the post
office and at the "smiddy" (it was only fear of the elder MacPherson,
that k