Yet it is no very long time till Mrs Laurie hears the news, unshadowed by any dissatisfaction, and very soon after Menie is speeding along the Kirklands road restored to all her usual cloudlessness, though it happens somehow, that, after a second bold plunge at it in the stillness of her own room, which reddened Menie’s cheek again with involuntary anger, she skips this objectionable paragraph in Randall’s letter, and, asking herself half audibly, what Johnnie Lithgow is to her, solaces herself out of her uneasiness by Randall’s exultation over her own last letter. For Randall is most heartily and cordially rejoiced to think of having his betrothed so near him--there can be no doubt of that. And here upon the hillside path, almost like one of those same delicate beechen boughs which wave over its summit, July Home comes fluttering down before the wind--her soft uncertain feet scarcely touching the ground, as you can think--her brown dress waving--her silky hair betraying itself as usual, astray upon her shoulders. Down comes July, not without a stumble now and then, over boulder or bramble, but looking very much as if she floated on the sweet atmosphere which streams down fresh and full from the top of the hill, and the elastic spring air could bear her well enough upon its sunny current for all the weight she has. Very simple are the girlish salutations exchanged when the friends meet. “Eh, Menie, where are you going?” and “Is that you, July?--you can come with me.” And now the road has two shadows upon it instead of one, and a murmur of low-toned voices running like a hidden tinkle of water along the hedgerow’s side. “Johnnie Lithgow! eh, I’m glad he’s turned clever,” said little July; “he used to come up the hill at nights when nobody ever played with me; and I think, Menie--you’ll no be angry?--he had more patience than Randall, for I mind him once carrying me, when I was just a little thing, all the way round the wood to the Resting Stane, to see the sunset, and minding what I said too, though I was so wee. I’m glad, Menie--I’m sure I’m very glad; but Randall, being clever himself, might have told us about Johnnie Lithgow before.” “You never can think that Johnnie Lithgow is as clever as Randall,” said Menie, indignantly. “That’s not what I mean either. Randall’s not clever, July. You need not look so strange at me. Clever! Jenny’s clever; I’m clever myself at some things; but Randall--I call Randall a genius, July.” And Menie raised loftily the face which was now glowing with a flash of affectionate pride. With a little awe July assented; but July still in her inmost heart asserted Randall to be clever, and rather avoided a discussion of this perplexing word genius, which July did not feel herself quite competent to define or understand.