And yet the next morning she was up and out of the house before anyone was awake, and she was making away for the solitude of the hills. She wished to be alone—and to look at the wide sea. She walked slowly, but yet her sick heart was resolute; the arduous toil of getting up the lower slopes and corries, filled with bracken, and rocks, and heather, did not hinder her; she turned from time to time to look, absently enough, at the ever-broadening plain of the Atlantic, rising up to the pale greenish-turquoise of the sky. And in time she had got over this rough ground, and had reached the lofty and sterile plateaus of peat-bog and grass, where, if it was loneliness she sought, she found it. No sign of life: no sound, except the plaintive call of a greenshank from a melancholy tarn: no movement, save that of the silver-grey masses of cloud that came over from the west. But away out yonder was the deserted island of Heimra; and far in the south were the long black promontories—Ru-Minard, Ru-Gobhar, and the rest—behind which a boat would disappear when it left for other lands. And had she heard of the Fhir-a-Bhata? Did Kate Glendinning know of the song that is the most familiar, the greatest favourite of all the West Highland songs; and had she told her friend of the maiden who used to go up the cliffs, day by day, to watch for the coming of her lover?— ’I climb the mountain and scan the ocean, For thee, my boatman, with fond devotion: When shall I see thee?—to-day?—to-morrow? Oh, do not leave me in lonely sorrow! Broken-hearted I droop and languish, And frequent tears show my bosom’s anguish: Shall I expect thee to-night to cheer me? Or close the door, sighing and weary.’ This, at least, Kate Glendinning soon began to learn—that nearly every morning now Mary left the house, entirely by herself, and was away by herself, in these desolate altitudes. It was clear she wished for no companionship; and Käthchen did not offer her services. Nor was any reference made to these solitary expeditions. The rest of the day Mary devoted herself to her usual work—increased, at this time, by her investigations into the extent of the injury done by the gale: as to the rest there was silence. And thus it was that Käthchen remained ignorant of this curious fact—that day by day these excursions were gradually being shortened. Day by day Mary Stanley found that her strength would not carry her quite so far: she had to be content with a lesser height. And at last she had altogether to abandon that laborious task of breasting the hill; she merely, and wearily enough, walked away up the Minard road—whence you can see a portion of the southern and western horizon; and there she would sit down on the heather or a boulder of rock—with a strange look in her eyes.