sed the wonder
of her eyes. The madness of the passionate moment of possession on the
moor was at once his most treasured memory and his intensest shame.

As for Mysie, since she had not heard any more from Robert nor even seen
him for almost a year, she felt quite flattered by the attentions of
Peter Rundell. It was not that she was in love with either of the young
men. Her nature was of the kind that is in love with love itself, and
was not perhaps capable of a great love, such as had frightened her,
when Robert, taken off his guard, had let her glimpse a strong,
overmastering passion and a soul capable of great things. Already she
dreamed of a grand house of which she would be mistress as Peter's wife,
as she stood in the silence of her own room, pirouetting and smirking,
and drawing pictures of herself in fine garments and stately carriage,
playing the Lady Bountiful of the district.

CHAPTER XIII

THE RED HOSE RACE

"All competitors for the Red Hose, get ready!" called the bell-man, who
announced the events at the sports, and immediately all was stir and
bustle and excitement.

"Wha's gaun to win the day, Andrew?" enquired Matthew Maitland, as they
stood waiting for the runners to emerge from the dressing tent.

"I dinna ken," answered Andrew Marshall. "That's a damn'd unfair
handicap anyway. My neighbor is no' meant to lift it seemingly. Look at
the start they've gi'en him, an' young Rundell starts at the limit."

"Ay!" said Matthew. "It's no' fair. It's some o' Black Jock's doings.
He's meanin' young Rundell to wun it."

"Ay, it looks like it; but it's fashious kennin' what may happen. Rab's
a braw runner," and Andrew spoke as one who knew, for he was the only
person who had seen Robert train.

"Weel, it's harder for him to be a rinner than for young Rundell, a man
wha never wrocht a day's work in a' his life, while Rab's had to slave
hard and sair a' his days.... Though Rundell can rin too," he added,
with ungrudged admiration.

"Ay, he ran weel last year, but they tell me he'd like to get the Red
Hose to his credit, though for my pairt they'd been far better to ha'e
presented it to him, than to gi'e him it that way. Man, he's a dirty
brute o' a man, Black Jock!" and there was disgust in his voice. "Jist
look at Mag Robertson there, flittering aboot quite shameless, and
gecking and smirking at him, an' naebody daur say a word to her. She's a
fair scunner!"

"If she belonged to me, I'd let h