The road swept around and up between leafless
trees and green cone-bearing ones. The snow was whitening the
branches, the snow wrapped house and landscape in its veil. It broke,
in part it obliterated, line and modeling; the whole seemed on the
point of dissolving into a vast and silent unity. "Like a dying man,"
thought Strickland. He came upon the narrow level space about the
house, passed the great cedar planted by a pilgrim laird the year of
Flodden Field, and entered by a door in the southern face.
Davie met him. "Eh, sir, Mr. Alexander's come!"
"Come!"
"Aye, just! An hour past, riding Black Alan, with Tam Dickson behind
on Whitefoot, and weary enough thae horses looked! Mr. Alexander wad
ha' gane without bite or sup to the laird's room, but he's lying
asleep. So now he's gane to his ain auld room for a bit of rest.
Haith, sir," said Davie, "but he's like the auld laird when he was
twenty-eight!"
CHAPTER VIII
Strickland went, to the hall, where he found Alice.
"Come to the fire! I've been watching the snow, but it is so white and
thick and still it fair frightens me! Davie told you that Alexander
has come?"
"Yes. From Edinburgh to-day."
"Yes. He left London as soon as he had our letters."
She stood opposite him, a bright and bonny lass, with a look of her
mother, but with more beauty.
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