"It is an unusual handwriting, don’t you think so, Käthchen?" she said, slowly, and almost as if she were talking to herself. "Firm and precise.... How odd one’s own name appears when you see it written for the first time by some one you know! ... Do you think character can be read in handwriting, Käthchen? ... firmness—yes, apparently; and precision—well, I don’t object to that so much, ... but don’t you think he is a little too—a little too confident in himself ... careless of what others may think ... a little too independent ... and proud in his own domain?" "I don’t know about that at all. But I am going to tell you something now, and you may be angry or not as you please," said Käthchen; and she went up to her friend, and put her hand on her arm: perhaps she wanted to watch the expression of her face: "Mamie," she said, "that man loves you." CHAPTER V. A PIOUS PILGRIMAGE. All things appeared to be going well at Lochgarra: Mary was radiant and jubilant, and would pay no heed to Käthchen’s underhand jibes and warnings. Her numerous schemes were thriving all along the line; she had orders for homespun webs and hand-knitted stockings far beyond what she could execute in the coming winter; she had been guaranteed two fishing-boats, with their furnishing of nets, for the next season; she was in treaty for more looms, for which there would be abundant employment; and to add to all this, the as yet ungarnered harvest—that poor, scattered, patchwork harvest, among the sterile rocks—promised a fair return if only the weather would leave it alone. But it was the attitude of the people towards her that warmed her heart. Since her open association with young Donald of Heimra, a miracle had been wrought in this neighbourhood; the dumb could speak; men and women who had sulkily turned away from the ban-sassunnach, shaking their heads, now managed to find quite sufficient English to answer her, and would ask her into their cottages, and offer her of their little store. Even the sad-faced, silent, morose Peter Grant, of the inn, had been brought to see that there might be something in Miss Stanley’s proposals. If he were to take the April fishing on the Garra at an annual rental of £15, she providing a water-bailiff, and if, by advertising in the sporting papers, he were to find two gentlemen who would pay him £25 for the month’s salmon-fishing, and use the inn at the same time, would not that serve? Peter (committing one illegal act in order to prevent another) could give an occasional glass of whiskey to the rosy-cheeked policeman: the placid and easy-going Iain, having little else to do, could now and again stroll down to the bridge of a morning or evening—there would be no fear of poachers at that end of the water.