At that instant he chanced to look up at her.  She was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen in the world.  And she had looked at him out of those golden eyes when he had been less than a mere brute beast....  That was very hard to know and remember ....  But it was the price he had to pay—­that this fresh, sweet, clean young thing had seen him as he once had been, and that he never could forget what she had looked upon.

“Kay!”

“Yes, Lady Yellow-hair.”

“What are you going to do with that rod?”

“Whip Isla for a yellow trout for you.”

“Isla?”

“Not our Loch, but the quick water yonder.”

“You know,” she said, “to a Yankee girl those moors appear rather—­rather lonely.”

“Forbidding?”

“No; beautiful in their way.  But I am in awe of Glenark moors.”

He smiled, lingering still to loop on a gossamer leader and a cast of tiny flies.

“Have you—­” she began, and smiled nervously.

“A gun?” he inquired coolly.  “Yes, I have two strapped up under both arms.  But you must come too, Yellow-hair.”

“You don’t think it best to leave me alone even in your own house?”

“No, I don’t think it best.”

“I wanted to go with you anyway,” she said, picking up a soft hat and pulling it over her golden head.

On the way across Isla bridge and out along the sheep-path they chatted unconcernedly.  A faint aromatic odour made the girl aware of broom and whinn and heath.

As they sauntered on along the edge of Isla Water the lapwings rose into flight ahead.  Once or twice the feathery whirr of brown grouse startled her.  And once, on the edge of cultivated land, a partridge burst from the heather at her very feet—­a “Frenchman” with his red legs and gay feathers brilliant in the sun.

Sun and shadow and white cloud, heath and moor and hedge and broad-tilled field alternated as they passed together along the edge of Isla Water and over the road to Isla—­the enchanting river—­interested in each other’s conversation and in the loveliness of the sunny world about them.

High in the blue sky plover called en passant; larks too were on the wing, and throstles and charming feathered things that hid in hedgerows and permitted glimpses of piquant heads and twitching painted tails.

“It is adorable, this country!” Miss Erith confessed.  “It steals into your very bones; doesn’t it?”

“And the bones still remain Yankee bones,” he rejoined.  “There’s the miracle, Yellow-hair.”

“Entirely.  You know what I think?  The more we love the more loyal we become to our own.  I’m really quite serious.  Take yourself for example, Kay.  You are most ornamental in your kilts and heather-spats, and you are a better Yankee for it.  Aren’t you?”

“Oh yes, a hopeless Yankee.  But that drop of Scotch blood is singing tunes to-day, Yellow-hair.”