Courage, True Hearts: Sailing in Search of Fortune. Stables Gordon

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      "Yes, aunt, if you bid me, but-" He hesitated.

      "Oh!" cried Duncan, "that 'but' turns the scale, mother. Don't you ask him to stay, mother. All Englishmen have pluck if they haven't all strength. So Frank is coming."

      The morning was very bright and beautiful, with just a slight "scriffen" of snow on the ground, and the sun rose over the eastern hills in a blue-gray haze, like a ball of crimson fire, and intimated his intention of shining all day long.

      Duncan and Conal were up betimes, and had got everything in readiness long before Frank came down.

      A sturdy keeper would carry the bags and the luncheon they should partake of on the hill.

      But the young Englishman was full of life and go. After a hearty breakfast they started; Flora standing in the porch waving her hand to them, but with tears of sorrow in her eyes because she too was not allowed to go.

      Viking was daft with joy, feathering round and round in wide circles, and now and then turning Dash, the Gordon setter, over on his back in the snow.

      They passed the forest, now leafless and bare, and taking to the right, the ground soon began to rise.

      The sheep under the charge of a plaided shepherd and his dog, were busy scratching away the snow to feed on grass and succulent mosses-a cold kind of breakfast, to say the least of it.

      The ground rose and rose.

      The dogs were kept well to heel, for indeed their services were but little needed.

      Ha! here are hare-tracks!

      "Take the front, Frank," said the laird; "you are the guest, and must have the first blood."

      Frank's heart beat high with excitement, and he carried the gun low with a finger on the trigger.

      "Hurrah! there she tips!"

      Bang! and a white hare that had essayed crossing from one broom-bush to another, was tumbled; then off darted Viking and brought her in.

      "Capital shot!" said Duncan. "Now we'll spread, and it will be every one for himself, and Viking and Dash for us all."

      They lay out in skirmishing order, and marched on and up.

      But soon they had to force their way through heather that came up even to the laird's and the tall keeper's waists, and all but buried little Frank.

      He held his gun aloft, however, and struggled bravely on.

      In about a quarter of an hour they had emerged, and the boys were shaking the snow from their kilts.

      On and up. Why, it was always on and up.

      They marched all that forenoon, sometimes around rocky spurs and paps of the mountains, sometimes along bare and barren glens, sometimes along the edges of fearful precipices, where a single slip or false step would have meant a terrible accident.

      By the time they had reached the cliffy shelter of a very high hill, they had bagged eight white hares in all.

      And now it was noon, and though the frost was fairly hard, the exercise had warmed their life-blood, and they felt no cold.

      Hunger, though? Ah! yes, but that could speedily be appeased.

      Plaids were spread on the ground, and down they all sat, the dogs not far off, and I'm sure that the keeper, sturdy chiel though he was, felt glad to be lightened of his load.

      What a jolly meal that was to be sure! With her own lady fingers the laird's wife had made that splendid pie. Pie for five and almost enough for fifty. But then, of course, there were the honest dogs to be considered, and they easily disposed of all that was left.

      Bread-that is, real oatcakes-cheese, and butter followed.

      The boys washed all down with a flagon of milk, but in the interests of truth, I must add that the laird and his keeper had a modest glass or two of Highland whisky.

      And now, after yarning for about half an hour, sport was resumed.

      Farther up the hillsides they still went, and so on and on for two whole hours.

      It had been a grand day, but as the sun was now declining towards the blue blue ocean, the laird called a halt.

      "I think, boys," he said, "we've done enough, and as we are nearly ten miles from home we had better be retracing our steps. Donald has as many hares as he can carry. Haven't you, Donald?"

      "Och! well, it's nothing," was the reply. "And it's all down-hill now you'll mind, sir."

      "Yes. Well, lead the way, Donald."

      Donald did.

      For one of the party, and that was Frank, the journey was a terrible one. On the upward march there was all the excitement of the sport to keep him up. But now he had no such stimulant to stir his English blood.

      When still three miles from Glenvoie mansion-house, Duncan observed that he was very pale and limped most painfully. In fact the poor boy's ankles were swollen, and his toes felt like whitlows; but although so tired that he could hardly carry his gun, that indomitable English courage of his kept him from complaining.

      He confessed, however, feeling just a little tired, so the laird poured a small quantity of whisky into a measure, mixed it with snow, and made him swallow it.

      After this he felt better.

      When they arrived at the top of the very lower-most and lost hill, the house being but half a mile distant, they sat down for a short time to rest and gaze across the sea.

      The sun's lower limb had just touched the wester-most wave, and red and fiery gleamed his beams 'twixt horizon and shore. It was a beautiful sight.

      Many flocks of rooks were winging their way northwards to the shelter of the great forest, and now and then a string of wild ducks were seen in full flight towards the tall reeds that bordered an ice-bound lake.

      Slowly sank the sun, the waves seemed to wash up across its blood-red surface, and gradually, so gradually, engulfed the whole.

      Frank Trelawney was indeed glad when he found himself once more in his own room. The man brought water, and with Highland courtesy insisted on bathing his feet.

      He next hurried away for a cup of delicious coffee, after swallowing which Frank felt like a giant refreshed, and soon went down into the drawing-room.

      He was still pale, however, for the terrible fatigue had temporarily affected the heart.

      Little Flora was not slow to note this.

      "Oh, cousin," she said, "how white and tired-looking you are! You shouldn't have gone. You're only a poor little English boy, you know."

      Frank liked the child's sympathy, but he certainly did not feel flattered by the last sentence.

      "That's all," he mustered courage to say. "I'm only a poor Cockney lad, and I think, Flora, I've had enough white-hare shooting СКАЧАТЬ