It was now midsummer, and Francis Gordon was well, though thin and looking rather delicate. Kirsty and he had walked together to the top of the Horn, and there sat, in the heart of old memories. The sun was clouded above; the boggy¹ basin lay dark below, with its rim² of heathery hills not yet in bloom, and its bottom of peaty marsh³, green and black, with here and there a shining spot; the growing crops of the far-off farms on the other side but little affected⁴ the general impression the view gave of a waste world; yet the wide expanse of heaven and earth lifted the heart of Kirsty with an indescribable sense of presence, purpose, promise. For was it not the country on which, fresh from God, she first opened the eyes of this life, the visible region in which all her efforts had gone forth⁵, in which all the food of her growth had been gathered, in which all her joys had come to her, in which all her loves had had their scope, the place whence by and by she would go away to find her brother with the bonny man!

 

Francis saw without heeding⁶. His heart was not uplifted. His earthly future, a future of his own imagining, drew him.

 

‘This winna du ony langer, Kirsty!’ he said at length. ‘The accusin angel ’ill be upo’ me again or I ken⁷! I maunna be idle ’cause I’m happy ance mair—thanks to you, Kirsty! Little did I think ever to raise my heid again! But noo I maun be at my wark! I’m fit eneuch!’

 

‘I’m richt glaid to hear’t!’ answered Kirsty. ‘I was jist thinkin lang for a word o’ the sort frae ye, Francie. I didna want to be the first to speyk o’ ’t.’

 

‘And I was just thinkin lang to hear ye speyk o’ ’t!’ returned Francis. ‘I wantit to du ’t as the thing ye wad hae o’ me!’

 

‘Even than, Francie, ye wudna, it seems, hae been doin ’t to please me, and that pleases me weel! I wud be nane pleast to think ye duin ’t for me! It wud gie me a sair hert, Francie!’

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