was not contented with that,
but in his mind's eye measured Fergus from top to toe.

In the autumn, Mr. Galbraith returned to Glashruach, but did not
remain long. His schemes were promising well, and his
self-importance was screwed yet a little higher in consequence. But
he was kinder than usual to Ginevra. Before he went he said to her
that, as Mr. Machar had sunk into a condition requiring his
daughter's constant attention, he would find her an English
governess as soon as he reached London; meantime she must keep up
her studies by herself as well as she could. Probably he forgot all
about it, for the governess was not heard of at Glashruach, and
things fell into their old way. There was no spiritual traffic
between the father and daughter, consequently Ginevra never said
anything about Donal or Gibbie, or her friendship for Nicie. He had
himself to blame altogether; he had made it impossible for her to
talk to him. But it was well he remained in ignorance, and so did
not put a stop to the best education she could at this time of her
life have been having--such as neither he nor any friend of his
could have given her.

It was interrupted, however, by the arrival of the winter--a wild
time in that region, fierce storm alternating with the calm of
death. After howling nights, in which it seemed as if all the
polter-geister of the universe must be out on a disembodied lark,
the mountains stood there in the morning solemn still, each with his
white turban of snow unrumpled on his head, in the profoundest
silence of blue air, as if he had never in his life passed a more
thoughtful, peaceful time than the very last night of all. To such
feet as Ginevra's the cottage on Glashgar was for months almost as
inaccessible as if it had been in Sirius. More than once the Daur
was frozen thick; for weeks every beast was an absolute prisoner to
the byre, and for months was fed with straw and turnips and potatoes
and oilcake. Then was the time for stories; and often in the long
dark, while yet it was hours too early for bed, would Ginevra go
with Nicie, who was not much of a raconteuse, to the kitchen, to get
one of the other servants to tell her an old tale. For even in his
own daughter and his own kitchen, the great laird could not
extinguish the accursed superstition. Not a glimpse did Ginevra get
all this time of Donal or of Gibbie.

At last, like one of its own flowers in its own bosom, the spring
began again to