THE EMPTY HUT.

IT had been arranged that the journey southward should be postponed for a few days on account of the loch accident; but the next morning was so bright and pleasant, and Blanche looked so fresh and well, that there seemed no reason for departing from the original plan, and it was hastily decided that she and her governess should start for London, travelling by easy stages.

Great was Blanche's dismay when she heard of this arrangement. She had been rejoicing over another pleasant day in the Glen, and began to think that the loch adventure had some advantages after all, seeing it was going to secure a few more days in the Highlands.

"It can't possibly be true, Ellis. You had better not go on with that packing till you get further orders," said the little girl, in a tone more imperious than she almost ever used, as she found her maid in a state of pleasurable bustle and excitement over boxes that were being quickly filled.

"Yes, missie; it's quite true, I assure you," replied her maid, without looking up from the box over which she was stooping. "Miss Prosser says it's a hexcellent arrangement, and, for my part, I agree with her 'eartily. It quite sets one up to think of gettin' back to civilized existence. There's cook quite a henvyin' of me, because I'm going three days sooner."

"I wish I were cook, I'm sure," burst in Blanche. "But, Ellis, I'm sure papa can't mean me to go to-day. He can't, indeed! I shall go and ask him this minute. You'd better stop putting in those things, Ellis," she added, impatiently.

But Ellis smiled confidently, and went on with her work, while Blanche ran away down the great staircase, feeling rather faint-hearted, however, as she thought of the possibility of Ellis's tidings being true. Below, she found everybody in a state of the most unpleasant pre-occupation. Miss Prosser was in the midst of elaborate packings, and smilingly assured her little pupil that they were really going. The carriage was to be at the door exactly at twelve o'clock, so she must make haste to be ready in time; and was it not pleasant they were going to have such a fine day to leave Glen Eagle?—and should they not be thankful that she was well enough to travel so soon after so serious an accident?

Blanche fled from Miss Prosser, along the winding passages towards the library, in the hope of finding her papa. There was still one last resource; she would beg him to allow her to remain, even one day, longer. There he was, seated in the library, to be sure; but surrounded by such piles of letters and papers, and with his most business-like expression on his face. Several people were waiting to speak to him and there seemed no hope of Blanche gaining an audience, unless she went boldly up to him, and made her petition before them all. She lingered about for a little time, trying to summon up courage, but at last glided away without uttering a word.

Then she wandered into the entrance-hall, and stood leaning on the old stuffed fox, watching the pile of boxes and portmanteaus in the court-yard, which increased in size every minute. The servants were hurrying to and fro in a state of bustle and excitement. Evidently, to Blanche alone these signs of departure brought a pang of regret. The thought of those pleasant vanished afternoons was too much to be borne. She had known that she must leave the Highland glen before long: but she did not dream it would be such a cruel tearing away as this.

After wandering aimlessly about for some time, she remembered that she must see Morag before the dreaded hour arrived. She could not surely have heard that they were really going to-day, or else she would have come, and there was no sign of her anywhere. Blanche wandered round the castle, among the grove of ash-trees, and into the old garden, but she did not find her friend at any of the usual trysting-places.

At last she made up her mind what she would do. Hurrying swiftly along the birk-walk, where the drooping boughs were quite golden now, she clambered up the steep ascent which led to the little shieling among the crags.

Blanche's spirits began to rise again. It would be so pleasant to give Morag a surprise. Probably she would find her at work inside the cottage. Perhaps she would be paring potatoes, as she had been on a previous occasion, which Blanche remembered well—for had she not sat down on a little stool beside her, and, being provided with a knife, had pared away delightedly. She thought it the most charming of amusements; but when she was dressing for the drawing-room that evening, Ellis had looked suspiciously at the stained fingers, which resisted ordinary ablutions, and Blanche, having been obliged to divulge to what culinary uses they had been devoted that day, had been forbidden by her governess to visit Morag again. It was therefore many weeks since she had been within the hut; but she felt sure that Miss Prosser could not be angry at her going on a farewell visit like this.

The door stood open, and Blanche walked in on tiptoe, smiling to think how astonished her little friend would be to see her. She glanced eagerly round the room, but no Morag was to be seen anywhere. The peat fire was burning brightly, and the potatoes lay among water in a nice wooden dish, all ready pared. But these traces of the absent inmate only made the disappointment keener. Blanche stood looking round, with a very dreary feeling. It was so hard not to find Morag, and she had evidently not been gone for long; if she had only thought of coming earlier, it would have been all right. The dreaded hour fixed for leaving the castle must be very near now, and what if she could not be found before then? Blanche's heart sank as she contemplated the possibility. Before she turned to go, she cast a lingering glance round the empty dwelling, and she could not help remarking how much nicer it looked than when she saw it first.

The roof was still far from being rainproof certainly, and the earthen floor was more undulating than was quite pleasant to walk upon; but the most had been made of everything that was capable of improvement. There was a sort of imitation of Kirsty's household arrangements which was very observable to Blanche, and she smiled through her tears as she noted it. On the shelf was ranged quite an imposing row of shining delf, where there used only to stand a stray broken dish or two. Everything was spotlessly clean and neat; and, in the little window, there flourished some of the old woman's favorite flowers, of which she had given slips to Morag. All this, and more, Blanche's quick eye took in at a glance; and the thought of its being the work of a pair of little, eager hands she knew well, brought quite a glow of pleasure, in the midst of her disappointment.

Blanche stood gazing at Morag's home till it was photographed in her memory. And as she turned away to go down the hill, she thought that surely Morag must have sought and found help from her unseen Friend for all those home duties, which it must be so difficult for a little girl no bigger than herself to have to do; and she longed to hear more about that friendship, from the little mountain maiden.

Gazing wistfully in the direction of the fir-wood, she wondered if she would have time to go to see whether Morag was to be found at their old trysting-place, the flat grey rock; but she dreaded that she would not, so she hurried tearfully towards the castle, and only reached home as the carriage drove to the door. She found Ellis setting out to look for her in a state of great indignation and perplexity, having, in the midst of the bustle, only that minute missed her charge. Some luncheon had to be swallowed in great haste; and then, while Miss Prosser was seating herself in the carriage, Blanche took the opportunity of darting off on a farewell journey round the grey old keep, where she had spent so many happy days. Only at the last minute did her papa emerge from the library to say good-bye to his little daughter. He meant to go south by a different route, and would not rejoin her in London for several weeks. Blanche felt as if all the waves and billows of trouble had gone over her head when she accidentally heard this piece of news, as she was at last compelled to seat herself in the carriage by Miss Prosser's side. She could not make any response to her father's cheerful waving to her as they were driven swiftly away. She felt the knot in her throat getting bigger every minute as they were whirled past the pleasant birk-walk and along the winding avenue, getting occasional glimpses through the boughs of the spruce fir-trees of the old grey turrets, or the moorland beyond.

At last they got upon the high road, and drove swiftly on between the sharply outlined mountains that reared themselves high and solemn all round—like sentinels keeping eternal watch over the Glen, amid all the changes that went on below.

Miss Prosser was busied with the index to "Bradshaw," so that, fortunately, or the reverse, Blanche was left to her own reflections. She kept an eager watch, as they drove swiftly on in the forlorn hope of catching a glimpse of Morag. But the familiar spots were quickly being left behind, and there was no trace of her anywhere; and Blanche's hope died quite away when they got into the wider range of the strath,—away in the direction of her southern home.

If only Blanche had not buried her face for a moment among the furs as she was passing the larch plantation, which at a certain point skirted the high road, her quick eye might have discovered the person she so longed to see.

Morag stood among the larch trees, bending under a heavy bundle of faggots, which she had been gathering, and which she had just managed to strap on her back. Hearing the sound of wheels on the road, she turned to look, but was only in time to catch a glimpse of the carriage, as it passed swiftly along by the old winding dyke. Some traces of luggage were visible, and Ellis was seated on the box. Morag's heart sank. Was it possible they were leaving the Glen, to-day, after all? And she had been going cheerily on with her work that morning, in the hope of another afternoon with Blanche. For had not Ellis told her, when she went to inquire at the castle the day before, that the southward journey had been postponed for several days. Only a short time ago she had been smiling as she gathered her fire-wood, thinking how pleased Kirsty would look when the wee leddy walked into the cottage that afternoon. But now, the more she thought of it, the more sure she felt that those cruel, swift wheels were carrying her away beyond their reach, to a land that seemed terrible and unknown indeed to the little mountain maiden.

She ran to the edge of the wood, and climbing on the lichen-spotted dyke, she gazed wistfully along the winding road, where the shining carriage was rolling swiftly along. And after she had watched it till it could be seen no longer, the little girl sat down and wept bitterly. Her bonnie wee leddy had gone without one parting word. Surely she must have utterly forgotten her, or else she could not have acted thus. Gladly would she have walked miles across pathless hills to touch her wee leddy's hand, and now she had gone without ever sending to ask her to come. And, as she sat weeping on the old grey dyke, the friendship of these autumn days seemed to grow dreamlike all of a sudden. Had she ever really walked by Shag's side with the little lady of the castle among the moors, or sat with her in the ben-end of Kirsty Macpherson's cottage?—or, had she been in fairyland all these weeks? The past seemed to grow so shadowy; and the bundle of dead sticks was so real and heavy, as she wearily rose, at last, to take her solitary way to the hut among the crags.

She had only gone a few steps in the direction of home, when she saw coming towards her through the larch trees Kenneth Macpherson.

"Who would have thought of meeting you here, Morag?" he cheerily accosted her. "And with such a heavy bundle of sticks, too. Let me carry it for you—do! Why it's bigger than yourself!" he added, with a pleasant smile, as he unfastened it and threw it across his own broad shoulders.

"You're going home, I suppose, Morag; ar'nt you?" he asked as he walked by her side. "I didn't know you ever came here. I often do. I can hardly ever pass the place without crossing the dyke. You mind the tartan folds, Morag?" said the boy, smiling sadly, as he glanced at the lonely spot from whence his mother's soul had gone home to God.

"Ay do I! I mind upon't weel," replied Morag, with quivering lip. The remembrance brought such a rush of mingled recollections that she could not say more just then.

"Oh, by the by, Morag, I wish I had known a few minutes ago that you were to be found here. I saw somebody who was very anxious to get a sight of you. Who do you think? The bonnie wee leddy, as you call her, on her way back to London!"

Morag stood still to listen, and as she looked earnestly into Kenneth's face, he noticed that she had been crying. "I never kent she was awa till I got a blink o' the cairage no lang syne. She never telt me she was goin' the day," and the little girl struggled vainly to keep back the tears.

"But I'm sure it wasn't her fault that you did not know she was leaving the Glen to-day, Morag. She seemed very sorry-like herself, and sent a message to you. When she noticed me on the road she jumped up from among a lot of furs, and stopped the carriage. The lady beside her was reading a book, and she looked up some angry like, and said something sharp. I think the wee leddy wanted to get out of the carriage to come and speak to me, but she wouldn't let her. Then she stretched her hand down and smiled very pleasantly, though I think she had been crying, too," added the kind-hearted Kenneth rather pathetically, as he glanced at Morag. "Then she began to thank me for what I did at the loch. I'm sure it wasn't anything to thank a body so much for. Such a pretty voice she has. It just sounded like the chimes of silver bells, Morag. And after she had thanked me, she stooped down quite low, and whispered as if she were afraid that the lady would hear, 'Oh, Kenneth, do you think you could find Morag anywhere? I'm sure she can't know I've gone, or else she would surely have come to see me.' But just then the lady rose very angry like, and said, sharply, 'Come now, Blanche, I cannot permit this. Drive on, Lucas!' she called out to the coachman; and then she sat down to her book again. The wee lady seemed very vexed, and when the horses started, she stretched down once again, and her curls came falling about her face and she cried, 'Give Morag my dearest love!'"

When Kenneth had finished his narration, Morag began to sob again, and he felt greatly at a loss to know how to comfort her. But they were tears of joy now. The feeling of bitterness was all gone. Her bonnie wee leddy had not forgotten her, and the friendship of those autumn days was no bit of fairyland after all.

Kenneth did not leave her till the bundle of firewood was deposited in the hut, and Morag had promised to come and pay them a visit at the cottage that afternoon.

And as he went sauntering down the hill with his hands in his pockets, whistling a tune, he thought what a very nice girl Morag was; and how glad he felt that it was not she who had gone away from the Glen. And he further decided that such a great bundle of sticks was much too heavy for a girl to carry, and resolved that, in future, he should always be in attendance to carry home the firewood.

As Morag re-entered the cottage, and glanced round the empty room, she saw something lying on the earthen floor which she had not dropped there; and stooping down, she picked up a little, half-worn glove, which told a tale. She looked eagerly round, as if some lingering presence of its owner must still pervade. Her bonnie wee leddy was leal and true after all, and she felt remorseful that she had doubted her for a moment. Kissing the token reverently, she opened the old kist, and slipped it between the folds of her most precious book, where it remained a sacred relic of that morning's visitor for many a long year.