White Heather: A Novel (Volume 1 of 3) — John Shaqi
White Heather: A Novel (Volume 1 of 3)Black, William
General
White Heather: A Novel (Volume 1 of 3)
Black, William
Scotland -- Social life and customs -- Fiction
Well, this was very idle talk; and moreover it was continued, for the
red-haired and freckled little sister was never weary of relating the
exploits of her handsome brother—the adventures he had had with
wild-cats, and stags, and seals, and eagles, and the like; and,
strangely enough, Miss Douglas showed no sign of impatience whatever.
Nay, she listened with an interest that scarcely allowed her to
interrupt with a word; and with satisfaction and approval, to judge by
her expression; and all that she would say from time to time—and
absently—was:
’But he is so careless, Maggie! Why don’t you speak to him? You really
must make him more heedful of himself.’
However, the night was going by; and Maggie’s praises and recitals had
come to an end. Meenie went down to the door to see her friend
comfortably wrapped up; but there was no need of escort; the stars were
shining clear, though the wind still howled blusteringly. And so they
said good-bye; and Maggie went on through the dark to the cottage,
thinking that Meenie Douglas was the most beautiful and sweet and
warm-hearted companion she was ever likely to meet with through all her
life, and wondering how it came about that Ronald and Mr. Murray and the
rest of them had been so disgracefully neglectful in not inviting her to
the New Year’s festivities on the forthcoming Monday. Ronald, at least,
should hear of his remissness, and that at once.
*CHAPTER VII.*
*AN EYRIE.*
’Come along, Harry, my lad,’ the young keeper cried next morning to his
faithful terrier, ’and we’ll go and have a look up the hill.’
He slipped a cartridge or two into his pocket, more by custom than
design as it were; put his gun over his shoulder; and went out into the
cold clear air, the little terrier trotting at his heels. The vague
unrest of the previous evening was altogether gone now; he was his
natural self again; as he strode along the road he was lightly
singing—but also under his breath, lest any herd-laddie should overhear—
_Roses red, roses white,_
_Roses in the lane,_
_Tell me, roses white and red,_
_Where is Meenie gane!_
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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