It was the same whimper waked me a second time, too prolonged to be an owl’s complaint, and I sat upright to listen. It was now the break of day. A faint grey light brooded among the tree-tops. “John! John!” I said in my companion’s ear, shaking his shoulder. He stood to his feet in a blink, wide awake, fumbling at his sword-belt as a man at hurried wakings on foreign shores. “What is it?” he asked, in a whisper. I had no need to answer him, for anew the child’s cry rose in the wood--sharp, petulant, hungry. It came from a thick clump of undergrowth to the left of our night’s lodging, not sixty yards away, and in the half-light of the morning had something of the eerie about it. John Splendid crossed himself ere he had mind of his present creed, and “God sain us!” he whispered; “have we here banshee or warlock!” “I’ll warrant we have no more than what we seek,” said I, with a joyous heart, putting my tartan about me more orderly, and running a hand through my hair. “I’ve heard of unco uncanny things assume a wean’s cry in a wood,” said he, very dubious in his aspect. I laughed at him, and “Come away, ‘_ille_,” I said; “here’s the Provost’s daughter.” And I was hurrying in the direction of the cry. M’Iver put a hand on my shoulder. “Canny, man, canny; would ye enter a lady’s chamber (even the glade of the wood) without tirling at the pin?” We stopped, and I softly sounded my curlew-call--once, twice, thrice. The echo of the third time had not ceased on the hill when out stepped Betty. She looked miraculous tall and thin in the haze of the dawn, with the aspiring firs behind her, pallid at the face, wearied in her carriage, and torn at her kirtle by whin or thorn. The child clung at her coats, a ruddy brat, with astonishment stilling its whimper. For a little the girl half misdoubted us, for the wood behind us and the still sombre west left us in a shadow, and there was a tremor in her voice as she challenged in English-- “Is that you, Elrigmore?” I went forward at a bound, in a stupid rapture that made her shrink in alarm; but M’Iver lingered in the rear, with more discretion than my relations to the girl gave occasion for. “Friends! oh, am not I glad to see yoa?” she said simply, her wan face lighting up. Then she sat down on a hillock and wept in her hands. I gave her awkward comfort, my wits for once failing me, my mind in a confusion, my hands, to my own sense, seeming large, coarse, and in the way. Yet to have a finger on her shoulder was a thrill to the heart, to venture a hand on her hair was a passionate indulgence. The bairn joined in her tears till M’Iver took it in his arms. He had a way with little ones that had much of magic in it, and soon this one was nestling to his breast with its sobs sinking, an arm round his neck. More at the pair of them than at me did Betty look with interest when her tears were concluded. “Amn’t I like myself this morning?” asked John, jocularly, dandling the bairn in his arms.