When he arrived, there was no light in the house: all had gone to rest. Unwilling¹ to disturb the father and mother, he rode quietly to the back of the house, where Kirsty’s room looked on the garden. He called her softly. In a moment she peeped out, then opened her window.

 

‘Cud ye come doon a minute, Kirsty?’ said Francis.

 

‘I’ll be wi’ ye in less time,’ she replied; and he had hardly more than dismounted, when she was by his side.

 

He told her what had passed between him and his mother since she left them.

 

‘It’s a rael bonny nicht!’ said Kirsty, ‘and we’ll jist tak oor time to turn the thing ower—that is, gien ye bena tired, Francie. Come, we’ll put the beastie up first.’

 

She led the horse into the dark stable, took his bridle² off, put a halter on him, slackened his girths, and gave him a feed of corn—all in the dark; which things done, she and her lover set out for the Horn.

 

The whole night seemed thinking of the day that was gone. All doing seemed at an end, yea God himself to be resting and thinking. The peace of it sank into their bosoms⁴, and filled them so, that they walked a long way without speaking. There was no wind, and no light but the starlight. The air was like the clear dark inside some diamonds. The only sound that broke the stillness as they went was the voice of Kirsty, sweet and low—and it was as if the dim starry⁵ vault⁶ thought, rather than she uttered, the words she quoted:—

 

‘Summer Night, come from God,

On your beauty, I see,

A still wave has flowed

Of Eternity⁷!’

At a certain spot on the ridge⁸ of the Horn, Francis stopped.

 

‘This is whaur ye left me this time last year, Kirsty,’ he said; ‘—left me wi’ my

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