ir pride and
petulance."

This is all that needs be said about the manner of Miss White's coming
to Dare, besides these two circumstances: First of all, whether it was
that Macleod was too flurried, and Janet too busy, and Lady Macleod too
indifferent to attend to such trifles, the fact remains that no one, on
Miss White's entering the house, had thought of presenting her with a
piece of white heather, which, as every one knows, gives good health and
good fortune and a long life to your friend. Again, Hamish seemed to
have acquired a serious prejudice against her from the very outset. That
night, when Castle Dare was asleep, and the old dame Christina and her
husband were seated by themselves in the servants' room, and Hamish was
having his last pipe, and both were talking over the great events of the
day, Christina said, in her native tongue,

"And what do you think now of the English lady, Hamish?"

Hamish answered with an old and sinister saying:

"_A fool would he be that would burn his harp to warm her._"

CHAPTER XXXIII.

THE GRAVE OF MACLEOD OF MACLEOD.

The monotonous sound of the waterfall, so far from disturbing the new
guest of Castle Dare, only soothed her to rest; and after the various
fatigues, if not the emotions, of the day, she slept well. But in the
very midst of the night she was startled by some loud commotion that
seemed to prevail both within and without the house; and when she was
fully awakened it appeared to her that the whole earth was being shaken
to pieces in the storm. The wind howled in the chimneys; the rain dashed
on the window-panes with a rattle as of musketry; far below she could
hear the awful booming of the Atlantic breakers. The gusts that drove
against the high house seemed ready to tear it from its foothold of rock
and whirl it inland; or was it the sea itself that was rising in its
thunderous power to sweep away this bauble from the face of the mighty
cliffs? And then the wild and desolate morning that followed! Through
the bewilderment of the running water on the panes she looked abroad on
the tempest-riven sea--a slate-colored waste of hurrying waves with
wind-swept streaks of foam on them--and on the lowering and
ever-changing clouds. The fuchsia-bushes on the lawn tossed and bent
before the wind; the few orange-lilies, wet as they were, burned like
fire in this world of cold greens and grays. And then, as she stood and
gazed, she made out the only sign of life