He drew nigh to the door, trembling.  It seemed strange to him that his nerves only, and not his mind, should feel. —­ In moments of unusual excitement, it sometimes happens that the only consciousness a strong man has of emotion, lies in an unwonted physical vibration, the mind itself refusing to be disturbed.  It is, however, but a seeming:  the emotion is so deep, that consciousness can lay hold of its physical result only. —­ The cottage looked the same as ever, only the peat-stack outside was smaller.  In the shadowiness of the firs, the glimmer of a fire was just discernible on the kitchen window.  He trembled so much that he could not enter.  He would go into the fir-wood first, and see Margaret’s tree, as he always called it in his thoughts and dreams.

Very poor and stunted and meagre looked the fir-trees of Turriepuffit, after the beeches and elms of Arnstead.  The evening wind whistled keen and cold through their dry needles, and made them moan, as if because they were fettered, and must endure the winter in helpless patience.  Here and there amongst them, rose the Titans of the little forest —­ the huge, old, contorted, wizard-like, yet benevolent beings —­ the Scotch firs.  Towards one of these he bent his way.  It was the one under which he had seen Margaret, when he met her first in the wood, with her whole soul lost in the waving of its wind-swung, sun-lighted top, floating about in the sea of air like a golden nest for some silvery bird of heaven.  To think that the young girl to whom he had given the primrose he had just found, the then first-born of the Spring, should now be the queen of his heart!  Her childish dream of the angel haunting the wood had been true, only she was the angel herself.  He drew near the place.  How well he knew it!  He seated himself, cold as it was in the February of Scotland, at the foot of the blessed tree.  He did not know that it was cold.

While he sat with his eyes fixed on the ground, a light rustle in the fallen leaves made him raise them suddenly.  It was all winter and fallen leaves about him; but he lifted his eyes, and in his soul it was summer:  Margaret stood before him.  He was not in the least surprised.  For how can one wonder to see before his eyes, the form of which his soul is full? —­ there is no shock.  She stood a little way off, looking —­ as if she wanted to be sure before she moved a step.  She was dressed in a grey winsey gown, close to her throat and wrists.  She had neither shawl nor bonnet.  Her fine health kept her warm, even in a winter wood at sun-down.  She looked just the same; —­ at home everywhere; most at home in Nature’s secret chamber.  Like the genius of the place, she made the winter-wood look homely.  What were the oaks and beeches of Arnstead now?  Homeliness and glory are Heaven.

She came nearer.

“Margaret!” he murmured, and would have risen.

“No, no; sit still,” she rejoined, in a pleading tone.  “I thought it was the angel in the picture.  Now I know it.  Sit still, dear Mr. Sutherland, one moment more.”