tly while the sun
was shining for common mortals.

"Out with your light!" said she. And then she added: "If you dared not
do it in the dark when you met me first, you cannot do it now," and he
was dashed exceedingly. He puffed out the flame.

"That's aye me!" he said as they resumed their journey up the second
hill of their morning escapade. "I am too often a day behind the fair.
I was--I was--kissing you a score of times in fancy and all the time you
were willing in the actual fact."

"Was I indeed?" she retorted shortly, with a movement to bring her shawl
more closely round her. "Do not be so flattering. I like you little
over-blate, Gilian, but I like you less over-bold. If you could see
yourself you would know which suits you best."

He had no answer. He must face his brae with lacerated feelings, now a
step removed from the girl who walked with him. But only for a little
was he depressed. She saw she had vexed him, and soon she was humming
again, and again they were children of illusion and content.

They reached the pass that led to the lochs, and now Gilian had to
confess himself in a strange country, but he did not reveal the fact to
his companion. They talked of their coming sojourn in these lovely wilds
that her mother had known and loved. The sun would shine constantly for
them; the lakes--the little and numerous lakes--would be fringed
with dreams and delight, starshine would find them innocent among the
heather, remitted to the days of old when they were happy and careless,
when no trouble marred their sky. Only now and then, as they sped on
their way, Gilian wished fervently he knew more of where he was going,
and was certain that life in the wilds would be so pleasant and easy as
they pictured it.

When they came at last upon the slope of Cruach-an-Lochain that revealed
the great valley of the lakes, they stood raptured by the spectacle
before them. Far off, the great hollow among the hills was hazy and
mysterious, but spread before them was the moor, tangled with grass and
heather, all vacant in the morning dream. A tremor of wind was in the
grass about their feet, a little mist tarried about the warm side of Ben
Bhreac, caught among the juniper bushes the hunters had put there for
shelter. All over brooded calm, a land forgetful of its stormy elements,
of the dripping nights, the hail-beat, shrewd ost and hurricane. They
could not, the pair of them, flying from a world of anxieties, but stop
and