ladies and gentlemen postured about in their high-heeled shoes is not absurd when a fresh and simple maiden crosses its boundary. She went down the glen to the merchant’s and chose her wool, and bought her needles, and said a few words to the women at their doors, and shed a few more tears when they were sorry for her about her brother’s going away, without ever leaving that visionary country, and came back from the village more deeply lost in it than ever, and hearing the whisper of last night in every motion of the branches and every song of the burns. “Will ye wait for me, Kirsteen?” though it was only this morning that he went away, and years and years must pass before he came back--“Ay, that I will! That I will.” She had nearly reached home again, coming back from the merchant’s--for even her reverie and the charm of it could not keep Kirsteen’s step slow, or subdue its airy, skimming tread--when she came up to the carter with his cart who had carried Robbie’s luggage to Inveralton. She stopped to speak to him, and walked along by his side timing her steps to those of his heavy, slow tread and the movement of the laborious, patient horse. “Did you see him, Duncan?” she said. “Oh, ay, I saw him--and they got away fine in James Macgregor’s boat; and a quick wind that would carry them over the loch in two or three minutes.” “And how was he looking, Duncan?” “’Deed, Miss Kirsteen, very weel: he’s gaun to see the world--ye canna expect a young boy like that to maen and graen. I have something here for you.” “Something for me!” She thought perhaps it was something that had been put into the gig by mistake, and was not excited, for what should there be for her? She watched with a little amusement Duncan’s conflict with the different coats which had preserved his person from the night cold. He went on talking while he struggled. “The other laddie, Jock, I left to come home with the maister in the gig. He thought it was fine--but I wouldna wonder if he was regretting Duncan and the cart--afore now. Here it is at last, and a fecht to get it. It is a book from Maister Ronald that you gave him a loan of--or something o’ that kind--if I could but mind what gentles say--” “Gave him--a loan of--?” cried Kirsteen, breathless. She had to turn away her head not to exhibit to Duncan the overwhelming blush which she felt to cover her from head to foot. “Oh, yes,” she added after a moment, taking the little parcel from his hand, “I--mind.” Let us hope that to both of them the little fiction was forgiven. A loan of--she had nothing to lend, nor had he ever borrowed from her. It was a small paper parcel, as if it contained a little book. Kirsteen never could tell how she succeeded in walking beside the carter for a few steps further, and asking him sedately about his wife and the bairns. Her heart was beating in her ears as if it would burst through. It was like a bird straining at its bonds, eager to fly away.