“Hast thou seen the glamour that follows
       The falling of summer rain-
    The mystical blues in the hollows,
       The purples and greys on the plain?”

It is true that all these things were but the idle garniture of a tale that had lost its meaning to Ralph this morning; but yet in time the sense that the beauty and hope of life lay about him stole soothingly upon his soul.  He was glad to breathe the gracious breaths of spraying honeysuckle running its creamy riot of honey-drenched petals over the hedges, and flinging daring reconnaissances even to the tops of the dwarf birches by the wayside.

So quickly Nature eased his smart, that—­for such is the nature of the best men, even of the very best—­at the moment when Winsome threw herself, dazed and blinded with pain, upon her low white bed in the little darkened chamber over the hill at Craig Ronald, Ralph was once more, even though with the gnaw of emptiness and loss in his heart, looking forward to the future, and planning what the day would bring to him on which he should return.

Even as he thought he began to whistle, and his step went lighter, Jock Gordon moving silently along the heather by his side at a dog’s trot.  Let no man think hardly of Ralph, for this is the nature of the man.  It was not that man loves the less, but that with him in his daring initiative and strenuous endeavour the future lies.

The sooner, then, that he could compass and overpass his difficulties the more swiftly would his face be again set to the south, and the aching emptiness of his soul be filled with a strange and thrilling expectancy.  The wind whistled in his face as he rounded the Bennan and got his first glimpse of the Kells range, stretching far away over surge after surge of heather and bent, through which, here and there, the grey teeth of the granite shone.  It is no blame to him that, as he passed on from horizon to horizon, each step which took him farther and farther from Craig Ronald seemed to bring him nearer and nearer to Winsome.  He was going away, yet with each mile he regained the rebounding spirit of youth, while Winsome lay dazed in her room at Craig Ronald.  But let it not be forgotten that he went in order that no more she might so lie with the dry mechanic sobs catching ever and anon in her throat.  So the world is not so ill divided, after all.  And, being a woman, perhaps Winsome’s grief was as dear and natural to her as Ralph’s elastic hopefulness.

Soon Ralph and Jock Gordon were striding across the moors towards Moniaive.  Ralph wished to breakfast at one of the inns in New Galloway, but this Jock Gordon would not allow.  He did not like that kind o’ folk, he said.

“Gie’s tippens, an’ that’ll serve brawly,” said Jock.

Ralph drew out Winsome’s purse; he looked at it reverently and put it back again.  It seemed too early, and too material a use of her love-token.

“Nae sillar in’t?” queried Jock.  “How’s that?  It looks brave and baggy.”