As they went on, she almost obtrusively avoided stepping on the flowers, saying she almost felt cruel, or at least rude, when she did so.  Yet she trailed her dress over them in quite a careless way, not lifting it at all.  This was a peculiarity of hers, which Hugh never understood till he understood herself.

All about in shady places, the ferns were busy untucking themselves from their grave-clothes, unrolling their mysterious coils of life, adding continually to the hidden growth as they unfolded the visible.  In this, they were like the other revelations of God the Infinite.  All the wild lovely things were coming up for their month’s life of joy.  Orchis-harlequins, cuckoo-plants, wild arums, more properly lords-and-ladies, were coming, and coming—­slowly; for had they not a long way to come, from the valley of the shadow of death into the land of life?  At last the wanderers came upon a whole company of bluebells—­not what Hugh would have called bluebells, for the bluebells of Scotland are the single-poised harebells—­but wild hyacinths, growing in a damp and shady spot, in wonderful luxuriance.  They were quite three feet in height, with long, graceful, drooping heads; hanging down from them, all along one side, the largest and loveliest of bells—­one lying close above the other, on the lower part; while they parted thinner and thinner as they rose towards the lonely one at the top.  Miss Cameron went into ecstasies over these; not saying much, but breaking up what she did say with many prettily passionate pauses.

She had a very happy turn for seeing external resemblances, either humorous or pathetic; for she had much of one element that goes to the making of a poet—­namely, surface impressibility.

“Look, Harry; they are all sad at having to go down there again so soon.  They are looking at their graves so ruefully.”

Harry looked sad and rather sentimental immediately.  When Hugh glanced at Miss Cameron, he saw tears in her eyes.

“You have nothing like this in your country, have you, Mr. Sutherland?” said she, with an apparent effort.

“No, indeed,” answered Hugh.

And he said no more.  For a vision rose before him of the rugged pine-wood and the single primrose; and of the thoughtful maiden, with unpolished speech and rough hands, and—­but this he did not see—­a soul slowly refining itself to a crystalline clearness.  And he thought of the grand old grey-haired David, and of Janet with her quaint motherhood, and of all the blessed bareness of the ancient time—­in sunlight and in snow; and he felt again that he had forgotten and forsaken his friends.

“How the fairies will be ringing the bells in these airy steeples in the moonlight!” said Miss Cameron to Harry, who was surprised and delighted with it all.  He could not help wondering, however, after he went to bed that night, that Euphra had never before taken him to see these beautiful things, and had never before said anything half so pretty to him, as the least pretty thing she had said about the flowers that morning when they were out with Mr. Sutherland.  Had Mr. Sutherland anything to do with it?  Was he giving Euphra a lesson in flowers such as he had given him in pigs?