and wild as that was
also, it was not able to tear down its banks of rock. From that
side the house did not seem in danger.

Mr. Galbraith had gone again, leaving Ginevra to the care of
Mistress Mac Farlane, with a strict order to both, and full
authority to the latter to enforce it, that she should not set foot
across the threshold on any pretext, or on the smallest expedition,
without the housekeeper's attendance. He must take Joseph with him,
he said, as he was going to the Duke's, but she could send for Angus
upon any emergency.

The laird had of late been so little at home, that the establishment
had been much reduced; Mistress Mac Farlane did most of the cooking
herself; had quarrelled with the housemaid and not yet got another;
and, Nicie dismissed, and the kitchen maid gone to visit her mother,
was left alone in the house with her Mistress, if such we can call
her who was really her prisoner. At this moment, however, she was
not alone, for on the other side of the fire sat Angus, not thither
attracted by any friendship for the housekeeper, but by the glass of
whisky of which he sipped as he talked. Many a flood had Angus
seen, and some that had done frightful damage, but never one that
had caused him anxiety; and although this was worse than any of the
rest, he had not yet a notion how bad it really was. For, as there
was nothing to be done out of doors, and he was not fond of being
idle, he had been busy all the morning in the woodhouse, sawing and
splitting for the winter-store, and working the better that he knew
what honorarium awaited his appearance in the kitchen. In the
woodhouse he only heard the wind and the rain and the roar, he saw
nothing of the flood; when he entered the kitchen, it was by the
back door, and he sat there without the smallest suspicion of what
was going on in front.

Ginevra had had no companion since Nicie left her, and her days had
been very dreary, but this day had been the dreariest in her life.
Mistress Mac Farlane made herself so disagreeable that she kept
away from her as much as she could, spending most of her time in her
own room, with her needlework and some books of poetry she had found
in the library. But the poetry had turned out very dull--not at all
like what Donal read, and throwing one of them aside for the tenth
time that day, she wandered listlessly to the window, and stood
there gazing out on the wild confusion--the burn roaring below, the
trees opposi