But ever after that he grew to wonder what Gertrude White, if ever she could be persuaded to visit his home, would think of this thing and of that thing—­what flowers she would gather—­whether she would listen to Hamish’s stories of the fairies—­whether she would be interested in her small countryman, Johnny Wickes, who was now in kilts, with his face and legs as brown as a berry—­whether the favorable heavens would send her sunlight and blue skies, and the moonlight nights reveal to her the solemn glory of the sea and the lonely islands.  Would she take his hand to steady herself in passing over the slippery rocks?  What would she say if suddenly she saw above her—­by the opening of a cloud—­a stag standing high on a crag near the summit of Ben-an-Sloich?  And what would the mother and Janet say to that singing of hers, if they were to hear her put all the tenderness of the low, sweet voice into “Wae’s me for Prince Charlie?”

There was one secret nook that more than any other he associated with her presence; and thither he would go when this heart-sickness seemed too grievous to be borne.  It was down in a glen beyond the fir-wood; and here the ordinary desolation of this bleak coast ceased, for there were plenty of young larches on the sides of the glen, with a tall silver-birch or two; while down in the hollow there were clumps of alders by the side of the brawling stream.  And this dell that he sought was hidden away from sight, with the sun but partially breaking through the alders and rowans, and bespeckling the great gray boulders by the side of the burn, many of which were covered by the softest of olive-green moss.  Here, too, the brook, that had been broken just above by intercepting stones, swept clearly and limpidly over a bed of smooth rock; and in the golden-brown water the trout lay, and scarcely moved until some motion of his hand made them shoot up stream with a lightning speed.  And then the wild flowers around—­the purple ling and red bell-heather growing on the silver-gray rocks; a foxglove or two towering high above the golden-green breckans; the red star of a crane’s-bill among the velvet moss.  Even if she were overawed by the solitariness of the Atlantic and the gloom of the tall cliffs and their yawning caves, surely here would be a haven of peace and rest, with sunshine, and flowers, and the pleasant murmur of the stream.  What did it say, then, as one sat and listened in the silence?  When the fair poetess from strange lands came among the Macleods, did she seek out this still retreat, and listen, and listen, and listen until she caught the music of this monotonous murmur, and sang it to her harp?  And was it not all a song about the passing away of life, and how that summer days were for the young, and how the world was beautiful for lovers?  “Oh, children!” it seemed to say, “why should you waste your lives in vain endeavor, while the winter is coming quick, and the black snowstorms, and a roaring of wind from the sea?  Here I have flowers for you, and beautiful sunlight, and the peace of summer days.  Time passes—­time passes—­time passes—­and you are growing old.  While as yet the heart is warm and the eye is bright, here are summer flowers for you, and a silence fit for the mingling of lovers’ speech.  If you listen not, I laugh at you and go my way.  But the winter is coming fast.”