Kirsty took from her pocket an old translation of Plato’s Phædo, and sat absorbed in it until the star, unheeded of her, attained its goal, and there was Steenie by her side! She shut the book and rose. ‘I’m a heap better, Kirsty,’ said Steenie. ‘The ill colour’s awa doon the stair, and the saft win’ ’s made its w’y oot o’ the lift, an’ ’s won at me. I ’maist think a han’ cam and clappit my heid. Sae noo I’m jist as weel ’s there’s ony need to be o’ this side the mist. It helpit me a heap to ken ’at ye was sittin there: I cud aye rin til ye!--Noo gang awa to yer bed, and tak a guid sleep. I’m some thinkin I’ll be hame til my br’akfast.’ ‘Weel, mother’s gaein to the toon the morn, and I’ll be wantit fell sair; I may as weel gang!’ answered Kirsty, and without a goodnight, or farewell of any sort, for she knew how he felt in regard to leave-takings, Kirsty left him, and went slowly home. The moon was up and so bright that every now and then she would stop for a moment and read a little from her book, and then walk on thinking about it. From that night, even in the stormy dark of winter, Kirsty was not nearly so anxious about Steenie away from the house: on the Horn he had his place of refuge, and she knew he never ventured on the bog after sunset. He always sought her when he wanted to sleep in the daytime, but he was gradually growing quieter in his mind, and, Kirsty had reason to think, slept a good deal more at night. But the better he grew the more had he the look of one expecting something; and Kirsty often heard him saying to himself--‘It’s comin! it’s comin!’ ‘And at last,’ she said, telling his story many years after, ‘at last it cam; and ahint it, I doobtna, cam the face o’ the bonny man!’ CHAPTER XV PHEMY CRAIG Things went on in the same way for four years more, the only visible change being that Kirsty seldomer went about bare-footed. She was now between two and three and twenty. Her face, whose ordinary expression had always been of quiet, was now in general quieter still; but when heart or soul was moved, it would flash and glow as only such a face could. Live revelation of deeps rarely rippled save by the breath of God, how could it but grow more beautiful! Cloud or shadow of cloud was hardly ever to be seen upon it. Her mother, much younger than her father, was still well and strong, and Kirsty, still not much wanted at home, continued to spend the greater part of her time with her brother and her books. As to her person, she was now in the first flower of harmonious womanly strength. Nature had indeed done what she could to make her a lady, but Nature was not her mother, and Kirsty’s essential ladyhood came from higher-up, namely, from the Source itself of Nature. Simple truth was its crown, and grace was the garment of it. To see her walk or run was to look on the divine idea of Motion.