“The sky is becoming very dark,” Mr. White said; “we had better go back, Gerty.”

But before they had gone far the first heavy drops were beginning to fall, and they were glad to run for refuge to some great gray boulders which lay in the moist moorland at the foot of the mountain-slopes.  In the lee of these rocks they were in comparative safety; and they waited patiently until the gale of wind and rain should pass over.  And what were these strange objects that appeared in the gray mists far along the valley?  She touched her father’s arm—­she did not speak; it was her first sight of a herd of red-deer; and as the deer had doubtless been startled by a shepherd or his dog, they were making across the glen at a good speed.  First came the hinds, running almost in Indian file, and then, with a longer stride, came one or two stags, their antlered heads high in the air, as though they were listening for sounds behind them and sniffing the wind in front of them at the same time.  But so far away were they that they were only blurred objects passing through the rain-mists; they passed across like swift ghosts; there was no sound heard at all.  And then the rain ceased, and the air grew warm around them.  They came out from the shadow of the rock—­behold! a blaze of hot sun on the moist moors, with a sudden odor of bracken, and young heather, and sweet-gale all about them.  And the sandy road quickly grew dry again; and the heavens opened; and there was a flood of sunlight falling on that rushing and breezy Atlantic.  They walked back to Dare.

“Tuesday, then, shall we say, pappy?” she remarked, just before entering.

“Very well.”

“And we are going to see some friends in Aberdeen.”

“Very well.”

After this Miss White became a great deal more cheerful; and she was very complaisant to them all at luncheon.  And quite by accident she asked Macleod, who had returned by this time, whether they talked Scotch in Aberdeen.

“Because, you know,” said she, “one should always be learning on one’s travels; and many a time I have heard people disputing about the pronunciation of the Scotch; and one ought to be able to read Burns with a proper accent.  Now, you have no Scotch at all here; you don’t say ’my dawtie,’ and ‘ben the hoose,’ and ‘’twixt the gloaming and the mirk.’”

“Oh no,” said he, “we have none of the Scotch at all, except among those who have been for a time to Glasgow or Greenock; and our own language, the Gaelic, is unknown to strangers; and our way of speaking English—­that is only made a thing to laugh at.  And yet I do not laugh at all at the blunders of our poor people in a strange tongue.  You may laugh at us for our way of speaking English—­the accent of it; but it is not fair to laugh at the poor people when they will be making mistakes among the verbs.  Did you ever hear of the poor Highlander who was asked how he had been employing himself, and, after a long time, he