d, as it was called, a little turfed road,
overhung by walnut trees brought by the old Earl from England. I had on
a Lowland costume with a velvet coat and buckled shoes, and one or
two vanities a young fellow would naturally be set up about, and the
consciousness of my trim clothing put me in a very complacent mood as I
stopped and spoke with the damsels.

They were pretty girls all, and I remember particularly that Betty had a
spray of bog-myrtle and heather fastened at a brooch at her neck.

She was the only one who received me coldly, seemed indeed impatient to
be off, leaving the conversation to her friends while she toyed with a
few late flowers on the bushes beside her.

"You should never put heather and gall together," I said to her,
rallyingly.

"Indeed!" she said, flushing. "Here's one who wears what she chooses,
regardless of custom or freit."

"But you know," I said, "the badge of the Campbell goes badly with that
of so bitter a foe as the MacDonald. You might as well add the oak-stalk
of Montrose, and make the emblem tell the story of those troubles."

It was meant in good-humour, but for some reason it seemed to sting her
to the quick. I could see it in the flash of her eyes and the renewed
flush at her temples.

There was a little mischievous girl in the company, who giggled and
said, "Betty's in a bad key to-day; her sweetheart has vexed her
surely."

It was a trivial remark, but I went off with it in my mind.

A strange interest in the moods of this old school-friend had begun to
stir me. Meeting her on my daily walks to town by the back way through
the new avenue, I found her seemingly anxious to avoid me, and difficult
to warm to any interest but in the most remote and abstract affairs.
Herself she would never speak of, her plans, cares, ambitions,
preferences, or aversions; she seemed dour set on aloofness. And though
she appeared to listen to my modestly phrased exploits with attention
and respect, and some trepidation at the dangerous portions, she had
notably more interest in my talk of others. Ours was the only big
house in the glen she never came calling to, though her father was an
attentive visitor and supped his curds-and-cream of a Saturday with
friendly gusto, apologising for her finding something to amuse and
detain her at Roderick's over the way, or the widow's at Gearran Bridge.

I would go out on these occasions and walk in the open air with a heart
uneasy.

And now it was