“An’ I’ll gae redd up the dairy, an’ kirn the butter, grannie!” said Winsome Charteris, breaking in on the flow of her grandmother’s reproaches.

CHAPTER V.

A lesson in Botany.

No lassie in all the hill country went forth more heart-whole into the June morning than Winsome Charteris.  She was not, indeed, wholly a girl of the south uplands.  Her grandmother was never done reminding her of her “Englishy” ways, which, according to that authority, she had contracted during those early years she had spent in Cumberland.  From thence she had been brought to the farm town of Craig Ronald, soon after the death of her only uncle, Adam Skirving—­whose death, coming after the loss of her own mother, had taken such an effect upon her grandfather that for years he had seldom spoken, and now took little interest in the ongoings of the farm.

Walter Skirving was one of a class far commoner in Galloway sixty years ago than now.  He was a “bonnet laird” of the best type, and his farm, which included all kinds of soil—­arable and pasture, meadow and moor, hill pasture and wood—­was of the value of about L300 a year, a sum sufficient in those days to make him a man of substance and consideration in the country.

He had been all his life, except for a single year in his youth when he broke bounds, a Marrow man of the strictest type; and it had been the wonder and puzzle of his life (to others, not to himself) how he came to make up to Ailie Gordon, the daughter of the old moss-trooping Lochenkit Gordons, that had ridden with the laird of Redgauntlet in the killing time, and more recently had been out with Maxwell of Nithsdale, and Gordon of Kenmure, to strike a blow for the “King-over-the-Water.”  And to this very day, though touched with a stroke which prevented her from moving far out of her chair, Ailie Skirving showed the good blood and high-hearted lightsomeness that had won the young laird of Craig Ronald upon the Loch Grannoch side nearly fifty years before.

It was far more of a wonder how Ailie Gordon came to take Walter Skirving.  It may be that she felt in her heart the accent of a true man in the unbending, nonjuring elder of the Marrow kirk.  Two great heart-breaks had crossed their lives:  the shadow of the life story of Winsome’s mother, that earlier Winsome whose name had not been heard for twenty years in the house of Craig Ronald; and the more recent death of Adam, the strong, silent, chivalrous-natured son who had sixteen years ago been killed, falling from his horse as he rode home alone one winter’s night from Dumfries.