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." That moment my gaze fell upon a single, solitary,red-tipped daisy.My reasoning vanished, and my melancholy with it, slain by thered tips of the lonely beauty.This was the kind of daisy I had loved as achild; and with the sight of it, a whole field of them rushed back into my mind;a field of my father's where, throughout the multitude, you could not have founda white one.My father was dead; the fields had passed into other hands; butperhaps the red-tipped gowans were left.I must go and see.At all events, thehill that overlooked the field would still be there, and no change would havepassed upon it.It would receive me with the same familiar look as of old, stillfronting the great mountain from whose sides I had first heard the sound of thatclanking horseshoe, which, whatever might be said to account for it, hadcertainly had a fearful connection with my joys and sorrows both.Did theghostly rider still haunt the place? or, if he did, should I hear again thatsound of coming woe? Whether or not, I defied him.I would not be turned from mydesire to see the old place by any fear of a ghostly marauder, whom I should beonly too glad to encounter, if there were the smallest chance of coming off withthe victory.As soon as my friend would permit me, I set out for Scotland.Chapter XVIIIOld Friends.I MADE the journey by easy stages, chiefly on the back of a favourite blackhorse, which had carried me well in several fights, and had come out of themscarred, like his master, but sound in wind and limb.It was night when Ireached the village lying nearest to my birth place.When I woke in the morning, I found the whole region filled with a white mist,hiding the mountains around.Now and then a peak looked through, and againretired into the cloudy folds.In the wide, straggling street, below the windowat which I had made them place my breakfast-table, a periodical fair was beingheld; and I sat looking down on the gathering crowd, trying to discover someface known to my childhood, and still to be recognized through the veil whichyears must have woven across the features.When I had finished my breakfast, Iwent down and wandered about among the people.Groups of elderly men weretalking earnestly; and young men and maidens who had come to be fee'd, werejoking and laughing.They stared at the Sassenach gentleman, and, littlethinking that he understood every word they uttered, made their remarks upon himin no very subdued tones.I approached a stall where a brown old woman wasselling gingerbread and apples.She was talking to a man with long, white locks.Near them was a group of young people.One of them must have said somethingabout me; for the old woman, who had been taking stolen glances at me, turnedrather sharply towards them, and rebuked them for rudeness."The gentleman is no Sassenach," she said."He understands everything you aresaying."This was spoken in Gaelic, of course.I turned and looked at her with moreobservance.She made me a courtesy, and said, in the same language:"Your honour will be a Campbell, I'm thinking.""I am a Campbell," I answered, and waited."Your honour's Christian name wouldn't be Duncan, sir?""It is Duncan," I answered; "but there are many Duncan Campbells.""Only one to me, your honour; and that's yourself.But you will not rememberme?"I did not remember her.Before long, however, urged by her anxiety to associateher Present with my Past, she enabled me to recall in her time-worn featuresthose of a servant in my father's house when I was a child."But how could you recollect me?" I said."I have often seen you since I left your father's, sir.But it was really, Ibelieve, that I hear more about you than anything else, every day of my life.""I do not understand you.""From old Margaret, I mean.""Dear old Margaret! Is she alive?""Alive and hearty, though quite bedridden.Why, sir, she must be within nearsight of a hundred.""Where does she live?""In the old cottage, sir.Nothing will make her leave it.The new laird wantedto turn her out; but Margaret muttered something at which he grew as white ashis shirt, and he has never ventured across her threshold again.""How do you see so much of her, though?""I never leave her, sir.She can't wait on herself, poor old lady.And she'slike a mother to me.Bless her! But your honour will come and see her?""Of course I will.Tell her so when you go home.""Will you honour me by sleeping at my house, sir?" said the old man to whom shehad been talking."My farm is just over the brow of the hill, you know."I had by this time recognised him, and I accepted his offer at once."When may we look for you, sir?" he asked."When shall you be home?" I rejoined."This afternoon, sir.I have done my business already.""Then I shall be with you in the evening, for I have nothing to keep me here.""Will you take a seat in my gig?""No, thank you.I have my own horse with me.You can take him in too, I daresay?""With pleasure, sir."We parted for the meantime.I rambled about the neighbourhood till it was timefor an early dinner.Chapter XIXOld Constancy.THE fog cleared off; and, as the hills began to throw long, lazy shadows, theironly embraces across the wide valleys, I mounted and set out on the ride of afew miles which should bring me to my old acquaintance's dwelling.I lingered on the way.All the old places demanded my notice.They seemed tosay, "Here we are-waiting for you." Many a tuft of harebells drew me towards theroadside, to look at them and their children, the blue butterflies, hoveringover them; and I stopped to gaze at many a wild rosebush, with a sunset of itsown roses.The sun had set to me, before I had completed half the distance.Butthere was a long twilight, and I knew the road well.My horse was an excellent walker, and I let him walk on, with the reins on hisneck; while I, lost in a dream of the past, was singing a song of my own making,with which I often comforted my longing by giving it voice.The autumn winds are sighingOver land and sea;The autumn woods are dyingOver hill and lea;And my heart is sighing, dying,Maiden, for thee.The autumn clouds are flyingHomeless over me;The homeless birds are cryingIn the naked tree;And my heart is flying, crying,Maiden, to thee.My cries may turn to gladness,And my flying flee;My sighs may lose the sadness,Yet sigh on in me;All my sadness, all my gladness,Maiden, lost in thee.I was roused by a heavy drop of rain upon my face.I looked up.A cool wave ofwind flowed against me.Clouds had gathered; and over the peak of a hill to theleft, the sky was very black.Old Constancy threw his head up, as if he wantedme to take the reins, and let him step out.I remembered that there used to bean awkward piece of road somewhere not far in front, where the path, with a bankon the left side, sloped to a deep descent on the right.If the road was as badthere as it used to be, it would be better to pass it before it grew quite dark.So I took the reins, and away went old Constancy
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