The scutch grass, the long rat-tail, and the golden cushag were swishing against his riding-breeches and her print dress. “I must tell her now,” he thought. In the narrow places she went first, and he followed with a lagging step, trying to begin. “Better prepare her,” he thought. But he could think of no commonplace leading up to what he wished to say. Presently, through a tangle of wild fuchsia, there was a smell of burning turf in the air and the sound of milking into a pail, and then a voice came up surprisingly as from the ground, saying: “Aisy on the thatch, Miss Cregeen, ma'am.” It was old Joney, the shearer, milking her goat, and Kate had stepped on to the roof of her house without knowing it, for the little place was low and opened from the water's edge and leaned against the bank. Philip made some conventional inquiries, and she answered that she had been thirty years there, and had one son living with her, and he was an imbecile. “There was once a flock at me, and I was as young as you are then, miss, and all as happy; but they're laving me one by one, except this one, and he isn't wise, poor boy.” Philip tried to steel his heart. “It is cruel,” he thought, “it will hurt her; but what must be, must be.” She began to sing and went carolling down the glen, keeping two paces in front of him. He followed like an assassin meditating the moment to strike. “He is going to say something,” she thought, and then she sang louder. “Kate,” he called huskily. But she only clapped her hands, and cried in a voice of delight, “The echo! Here's the echo! Let's shout to it.” Her kindling features banished his purpose for the time, and he delivered himself to her play. Then she called up the gill, “Ec--ho! Ec--ho!” and listened, but there was no response, and she said, “It won't answer to its own name. What shall I call?” “Oh, anything,” said Philip. “Phil--ip! Phil--ip!” she called, and then said pettishly, “No, Philip won't hear me either.” She laughed. “He's always so stupid though, and perhaps he's asleep.” “More this way,” said Philip. “Try now.” “You try.” Philip took up the call. “Kate!” he shouted, and back came the answer, _Ate!_ “Kate--y!”--_Ate--y_. “Ah! how quick! Katey's a good girl. Hark how she answers you,” said Kate. They walked a few steps, and Kate called again, “Philip!” There was no answer. “Philip is stubborn; he won't have anything to do with me,” said Kate. Then Philip called a second time, “Katey!” And back came the echo as before. “Well, that's too bad. Katey is--yes, she's actually _following_ you!” Philip's courage oozed out of him. “Not yet,” he thought. _Traa-dy-liooar_--time enough. “After supper, when everybody is going! Outside the mill, in the half light of candles within and darkness without! It will sound so ordinary then, 'Good-bye! Haven't you heard the news? Auntie Nan is reconciled at last to leaving Ballure and joining me in Douglas.' That's it; so simple, so commonplace.”