There was at Corbyknowe a young, well-bred horse which David had himself reared: Kirsty had been teaching him to carry a lady. For her hostess in Edinburgh, discovering that she was fond of riding and that she had no saddle, had made her a present of her own: she had not used it for many years, but it was in very good condition, and none the worse for being a little old-fashioned. That same morning Kirsty had put on a blue riding-habit, which also lady Macintosh had given her, and was out on the highest slope of the farm, hoping to catch a sight of the two on horseback together, and so learn that her scheme was a success. She had been on the outlook for about an hour, when she saw them coming along between the castle and Corbyknowe, and went straight for a certain point in the road so as to reach it simultaneously¹ with them. For she had just spied a chance of giving Gordon the opportunity which her father had told her he was longing² for, of saying something about her to his mother.

 

‘Who can that be?’ said Mrs. Gordon as they trotted³ gently along, when she spied the lady on horseback. ‘She rides well! But she seems to be alone! Is there really nobody with her?’

 

As she spoke⁴, the young horse came over a dry-stane-dyke⁵ in fine style.

 

‘Why, she’s an accomplished⁶ horsewoman!’ exclaimed Mrs. Gordon. ‘She must be a stranger! There’s not a lady within thirty miles of Weelset can ride like that!’

 

‘No such stranger as you think, mother!’ rejoined Francis. ‘That’s Kirsty Barclay of Corbyknowe.’

 

‘Never, Francis! The girl rides like a lady!’

 

Francis smiled, perhaps a little triumphantly⁷. Something like what lay in the smile the mother read in it, for it roused at once both her

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