She was out and abroad over the moorland long before any one was astir, and searching with an anxious diligence, and as yet without success. White heather is not so frequently met with in the North as in the West Highlands; and yet in Sutherlandshire it is not an absolute rarity; many a time had she come across a little tuft of it in her wanderings over the moors. But now, search as she might, she could not find the smallest bit; and time began to press; for this was the morning for the mail to go south—if she missed it, she would have to wait two more days. And as half-hour after half-hour went by, she became more anxious and nervous and agitated; she went rapidly from knoll to knoll, seeking the likeliest places; and all in vain. It was a question of minutes now. She could hear the mail-cart on the road behind her; soon it would pass her and go on to the inn, where it would remain but a brief while before setting out again for Lairg. And presently, when the mail-cart did come along and go by, then she gave up the quest in despair; and in a kind of bewildered way set out for home. Her heart was heavy and full of its disappointment; and her face was paler a little than usual; but at least her eyes told no tales. And then, all of a sudden, as she was crossing the Mudal bridge, she caught sight of a little tuft of gray away along the bank and not far from the edge of the stream. At first she thought it was merely a patch of withered heather; and then a wild hope possessed her; she quickly left the bridge and made her way towards it; and the next moment she was joyfully down on her knees, selecting the whitest spray she could find. And the mail-cart?—it would still be at the inn—the inn was little more than half a mile off—could she run hard and intercept them after all, and send her white-dove message away to the south? To think of it was to try it, at all events; and she ran as no town-bred girl ever ran in her life—past the Doctor’s cottage, along the wide and empty road, past the keeper’s house and the kennels, across the bridge that spans the little burn. Alas! there was the mail-cart already on its way. ’Johnnie, Johnnie!’ she called. Happily the wind was blowing towards him; he heard, looked back, and pulled up his horses. ’Wait a minute—I have a letter for you to take!’ she called, though her strength was all gone now. And yet she managed to get quickly down to the inn, and astonished Mrs. Murray by breathlessly begging for an envelope. ’Tell Nelly—tell Nelly,’ she said, while her trembling fingers wrote the address, ’to come and take this to the mail-cart—they’re waiting—Johnnie will post it at Lairg.’