How eagerly he looked, his eyes like telescopes!  Then his heart thrilled.  In the cool flood of slanting morning sunshine which had just overflowed the eastern gable of the house, some one swiftly crossed the court-yard of the farm.  In a moment the sun, winking on a pair of tin pails, told him that Meg Kissock was going to the well.  From the barn end some one stepped out by her side and walked to the well.  Then, as they returned, it was not the woman who was carrying the winking pails.  At the barn end they drew together in the shadow for a long minute, and then again Ralph saw Meg’s back as she walked sedately to the kitchen door, the cans flashing rhythmically as she swung them.  So high was he above them that he could even notice the mellow dimple of diffused light from the water in the bright pail centring and scattering the morning sunlight as it swayed.

Presently the one half of the blue kitchen door became black.  It had been opened.  Ralph’s heart gave a great bound.  Then the black became white and glorified, for framed within it appeared a slender shape like a shaft of light.  Ralph’s eyes did not leave the figure as it stepped out and came down by the garden edge.

Along the top of the closely-cut hawthorn a dot of light moved.  It was but a speck, like the paler centre of the heather bells.  Ralph ran swiftly down the great dyke in a manner more natural to a young man than dignified in a poet.  In a minute he came to the edge of the glen in which Andra Kissock had guddled the trouts.  That flash of layender must pass this way.  It passed and stayed.

So in the cool translucence of morning light the lovers met in this quiet glade, the great heather moors above them once more royally purple, the burnie beneath singing a gentle song, the birds vying with each other in complicated trills of pretended artlessness.

It was purely by chance that Winsome Charteris passed this way.  And a kind Providence, supplemented on Ralph’s side by some activity and observation, brought him also to the glen of the elders that June morning.  Yet there are those who say that there is nothing in coincidence.

When Winsome, moving thoughtfully onward, gently waving a slip of willow in her hand, came in sight of Ralph, she stood and waited.  Ralph went towards her, and so on their marriage morn these two lovers met.

It was like that morning on which by the lochside they parted, yet it was not like it.

With that prescience which is a sixth sense to women, Winsome had slipped on the old sprigged gown which had done duty at the blanket-washing so long ago, and her hair, unbound in the sun, shone golden as it flowed from beneath the lilac sunbonnet.  As for Ralph, it does not matter how he was dressed.  In love, dress does not matter a brass button after the first corner is turned—­at least not to the woman.

“Sweet,” said Ralph, “you are awake?”

Winsome looked up with eyes so glorious and triumphant that a blind man could scarce have doubted the fact.