"O blessed vision, happy child, Thou art so exquisitely wild, I thought of thee with many fears Of what might be thy lot in future years." Wordsworth. THREE days afterwards, Mysie made her appearance again. Rowena found her very good company. She was full of Highland folk-lore and superstition; and was a combination of childish trust in the improbable, and old-fashioned sagacity and shrewdness. "Have you ever seen any fairies?" she asked Rowena. "I've heard about them," answered Rowena. "Yes," sighed the child; "but all the nice things happened long ago. People say now that the fairies have gone away; I'm always watching for them. I went to Inverness one day with Nan. We saw two beautiful things there. One was the statue of Flora Macdonald with her dog—only I wish she'd had her kilt on—I believe she used to wear it when she was quite big! And the other was the Tom na hurisch. And when I saw that I said to myself I'd have one for everything that dies." "What is it?" asked Rowena. "I have never seen Inverness." "Tom na hurisch is the Fairies' Hill, and they've buried people all over it now. I hope the fairies like it. I think they like people's souls better than their bodies. You know it used to be rather dangerous for people to walk over their hills. They stole their souls out of them. A minister was found one day—at least his body was—and they thought he had had a fit; he wouldn't speak or look or eat, and they took him home; he had been walking round Tom na hurisch—and the fairies kept him out of his body for three days, and then they brought him back. I can't think why he couldn't have remembered what they did with him; he would never talk about it, but he would never go near a Tom na hurisch again—never—all his life long! I wish the fairies would take me one day." "I would rather not have the experience," Rowena said, laughing. "Who tells you all these stories?" "Oh, Angus—him and me, we walk over the hills together; and he talks and I listen. Nan laughs at his stories. Nan is an unbeliever! I lie down under the bracken sometimes and watch for the little folk, but I never see them. I thought I did once." "You will one day! I wonder if you have heard the story of the laird out hunting. He was coming through his glen when he heard the most beautiful pipes playing; and he hid himself behind a tree; and he saw the fairies marching by, and their pipes playing as they went. The pipes shone in the sun, they were silver pipes with glass at the end of them. And the laird suddenly sprang out and threw his bonnet at them, and seized one of the pipes, calling out, 'Mine to yours, and yours to me!' And he wrapped the pipes up in his plaid and took them carefully home, and when he opened them there were some wisps of grass and a puff-ball at the end of them!" Mysie listened breathlessly.