"Let us go! It grows late. They'll miss me."
They came into the glen and so went down with the stream to the open
land and to White Farm.
"Where hae you been?" asked Jenny. "Here was father hame frae the
shearing with his eyes blurred, speiring for you to read to him!"
"I was walking by the glen and the laird came down through, so we made
here together. Where is grandfather?"
"He wadna sit waiting. He's gane to walk on the muir. Will ye na bide,
Glenfernie?"
But the laird would not stay. It was wearing toward sunset. Menie,
withindoors, called Jenny. The latter turned away. Glenfernie spoke to
Elspeth.
"If I find your grandfather on the moor I shall speak of this that is
between us. Do not look so troubled! 'If' or 'if not' it is better to
tell. So you will not be plagued. And, anyhow, it is the wise folks'
road."
Back came Jenny. "Has he gane? I had for him a tass of wine and a bit
of cake."
The moor lay like a stiffened billow of the sea, green with purple
glints. The clear western sky was ruddy gold, the sun's great ball
approaching the horizon. But when it dipped the short June night
would know little dark in this northern land. The air struck most
fresh and pure. Glenfernie came presently upon the old farmer, found
him seated upon a bit of bank, his gray plaid about him, his
crook-like stick planted before him, his eyes upon the western sea of
glory.
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