Nevertheless, he was rather dull, they thought; and there was some facetious raillery over his not having yet recovered from the frolic of the previous night; with frequent invitations to take a hair of the dog that had bitten him. Kate was the kindest; she had been a little alarmed by the definite repugnance he had shown in the morning; she was glad to be friends with him again. As for him—well, he was as good-natured as ever; but rather absent in manner; for sometimes, amid all their boisterous _camaraderie_, he absolutely forgot what they were saying; and in a kind of dream he seemed to see before him the sunlit Strath-Terry, and the blue waters of the loch, and Mudal’s stream winding through the solitary moorland waste—and a young girl there stooping to pick up something from the heather. *CHAPTER III.* *A RESOLVE.* The days passed; no answer came to that mute message of hers; nay, how could she expect any answer? But these were terrible days to her—of mental torture, and heart-searching, and unceasing and unsatisfied longing, and yearning, and pity. And then out of all this confusion of thinking and suffering there gradually grew up a clear and definite resolve. What if she were to make of that bit of white heather but an _avant-courier_? What if she were herself to go to Glasgow, and seek him out, and confront him, and take him by the hand? She had not overrated her old influence with him: well she knew that. And how could she stand by idle and allow him to perish? The token she had sent him must have told him of her thinking of him; he would be prepared; perhaps he would even guess that she had come to Glasgow for his sake? Well, she did not mind that much; Ronald would have gentle thoughts of her, whatever happened; and this need was far too sore and pressing to permit of timid and sensitive hesitations. One morning she went to her father’s room and tapped at the door. ’Come in!’ She was rather pale as she entered. ’Father,’ she said, ’I would like to go to Glasgow for a while.’ Her father turned in his chair and regarded her. ’What’s the matter with ye, my girl?’ he said. ’You’ve not been looking yourself at all for some time back, and these last few days you’ve practically eaten nothing. And yet your mother declares there’s nothing the matter. Glasgow? I dare say a change would do you good—cheer you up a bit, and that; but—Glasgow? More schooling, more fees, that would be the chief result, I imagine; and that’s what your mother’s driving at. I think it’s nonsense: you’re a grown woman; you’ve learned everything that will ever be of any use to you.’ ’I ought to have, any way, by this time,’ Meenie said simply. ’And indeed it is not for that, father. I—I should like to go to Glasgow for a while.’