The wind still moaned about the house, but outside there was no sign of any storm; on the contrary, everything was strangely calm. The lake lay a dark lurid purple in the hollow of the encircling hills; and these, along the eastern heavens, were of the deepest and softest olive green; just over them was a line of gleaming salmon-red, keen and resplendent as if molten from a furnace; and over that again soft saffron-dusky clouds, deepening in tone the higher they hung in the clear pale steel hues of the overhead sky. There was no sign of life anywhere—nothing but the birch woods sloping down to the shore; the moorland wastes of the lower hills; and above these the giant bulk and solemn shadows of Ben Clebrig,[#] dark against the dawn. It was a lovely sight; he began to think he had never before in his life felt himself so much alone. But whence came the sound of the wind that seemed to go moaning down the strath towards the purple lake? [#] That is, the Hill of the Playing Trout. Well, he made no doubt that it was up towards the north and west that the storm was brewing; and he remembered that a window in the sitting-room below looked in that direction; there he would be able to ascertain whether any fishing was practicable. He finished his dressing and went down. The breakfast table was laid; a mighty mass of peats was blazing cheerfully in the spacious fireplace. And the storm? Why, all the wide strath on this northern side of the house was one glow of yellow light in the now spreading sunrise; and still farther away in the north the great shoulders of Ben Loyal[#] had caught a faint roseate tinge; and the same pale and beautiful colour seemed to transfuse a large and fleecy cloud that clung around the snow-scarred peak. So he came to the conclusion that in this corner of the glen the wind said more than it meant; and that they might adventure on the loch without risk of being swamped or blown ashore. [#] More properly Ben Laoghal, the Hill of the Calves. The slim tall Highland lass made her appearance with further plenishings for the table, and ’Good moarning!’ she said, in her pretty way, in answer to his greeting. ’Say, now, has that man come down from Tongue yet?’ ’No, sir,’ said Nelly, ’he wass no come down yet.’ And then she looked up with a demure smile. ’They would be keeping the New Year at Tongue last night.’ ’Keeping the New Year on the 14th of January?’ ’It’s the twelfth is the usual day, sir,’ she explained, ’but that was Saturday, and they do not like a Saturday night, for they have to stop at twelve o’clock, and so most of them were for keeping it last night.’ ’Oh, indeed. Then the festive gentleman won’t show up to-day?’ ’But it is of no matter whateffer whether he comes or no; for I am sure that Ronald will be willing to lend a hand. Oh, I am sure of it. I will ask him myself.’ ’_You_ will ask him?’ was Mr. Hodson’s internal soliloquy. ’It is to _you_ he will grant the favour. Indeed!’