MORAG'S JOURNEY INTO THE WORLD BEYOND THE MOUNTAINS.

IT was a wild night at Stratheagle. An eddying wind had been blowing the deep snow into wreaths, and fresh falling flakes were whirling about in all directions through the darkness.

All trace of the road through the mountain pass had disappeared; and it would have fared ill with the Honorable Mr. Clifford's slim English footman, with his elegant calves, as he made his way towards the keeper's shieling among the crags, if he had not taken the precaution of securing a guide from the village below.

The steep ascent to the hut was almost impassable, and more than once the man seemed disposed to give it up and beat a retreat to his quarters at the village without fulfilling his mission. But his more stalwart companion cheered him on, assuring him at intervals that it was only a "mile and a bittock," and pointed to the light in the window of the hut long before it shed any encouraging ray on the exhausted flunkey, who went stumbling and grumbling up the hill through the blinding drift, feeling himself the most ill-used of persons to have been sent to such regions in such weather.

The light from the window of the hut was at last really visible, shimmering through the darkness, and soon the benighted travellers stood under the snowy crags which towered above the little shieling.

Our old friend Morag was, meanwhile, comfortably seated in the ingle-neuk, reading laboriously from one of her ancient yellow-leaved volumes, little dreaming what was in store for her to-night. Her father sat near her smoking his evening pipe, but he was not staring into the fire in idleness and grim silence as of old. He seemed at the present moment quite absorbed in a newspaper, the date of which was uncertain, seeing it had been torn off when it was used for lining a packing-case of game during autumn. But though it was not a "day's paper," it seemed to satisfy the keeper's literary cravings, and he had carefully perused it from beginning to end by the light of the fire of peat and pine, which blazed brightly on the hearth.

The snow made a warm covering round the wall, and a secure white thatch on the porous roof, so it happened that to-night the hut was really a more comfortable abode than it had often proved during autumn-days.

Morag jumped to her feet when she heard the sound of voices and the loud knocking; and now she stood gazing at her father with a look of startled surprise.

Laying down his pipe, the keeper prepared to open the door, but before he had time to do so, the injured footman stood in the middle of the floor, stamping the snow from his feet, and inspecting his precious person generally, as he muttered expressions of indignation concerning this unpleasant piece of service which had fallen to his lot.

Morag recognized the visitor at once, and forgetting her shyness, she sprang forward, saying, in low, eager tones, "Will ye no be frae the wee leddy o' the castle? I'm thinkin' there maun be something wrang. Is she no weel?"

"Miss Clifford, I presume you mean, little girl. Well, you are right, so far. I come from her father—my master, the Honorable Mr. Clifford. I think I've got a letter for you; but 'pon my word it's been at the risk of my life bringin' it here. S'pose I'd better read it myself?" said he, looking round patronizingly at the keeper.

And without waiting for a reply, he tore open the closed envelope, amid the smouldering indignation of the keeper, to whom it was evidently addressed, and began to read as follows:—

"Will Morag come to London immediately to see her little friend Blanche, who is very ill and wants to see her? The Keeper may safely trust his daughter to the servant, who has got all directions how to proceed.

Arthur Clifford."

"Quite safe with me, depend upon it; the master is quite right there!" said the servant, smiling blandly at the confidence reposed in him.

"Well, little girl, what do you say to it? You will come, I suppose? The master has set his 'art on it, sure enough—or he would not have been sendin' me to the hends of the earth on such a night as this. I have a trap hired at the village, all ready to start in the morning. What do you say to it, keeper?—rather sudden, for such quiet folks as you, ain't it?" continued the man, smilingly glancing at the silent, offended keeper.

Morag sat thinking in dumb silence for a little, but presently she sprang up, and taking hold of her father's arm, she said in her low, eager tone, "O father! ye mustna hinner me; the bonnie wee leddy is ill, and wantin' me—and I maun gang!"

Then turning to the messenger, Morag asked imploringly, "She's no jist sae verra ill, is she?"

"Bad enough, I guess. 'Tis a pity—such a pretty little miss she was getting to be. Master so bound up in her, too!"

"Well, keeper, how is it to be?—for I've got to go down that shockin' precipice again—and it's getting late. I'll take good care of the young 'un, you may be sure. And, depend upon it, you won't be the loser, noways, by fallin' in with master's views," added the servant, with a nod of meaning which made the proud keeper resolve instantly that his daughter should not obey the summons.

But never before had Morag been so wildly wilful on any matter. Her father felt quite taken by storm as he listened to her pleadings, though he could not yet be persuaded to give his consent.

The servant stood waiting with evident impatience, and at last a compromise was arranged, to the effect that if Morag was to accompany him, she would be brought to the village inn by her father next morning, before the hour of starting.

It was almost midnight when Dingwall might be seen toiling across the moorland, through the snow, in the direction of Kirsty's cottage. The old woman and he were fast friends now, and he wanted to ask her advice on the startling proposal concerning the little girl who was so precious to them both.

He found Kirsty sitting quietly reading her Bible beside the dying peat embers. Taking off her spectacles, she listened placidly to the story, and presently she replied in low, emphatic tones, "Dinna hinner the bairn, keeper. Lat her gang, by a' means. 'Deed, I'm near awears o' gaen mysel'. The bonnie lambie—an' sae He's til tak' her hame til Himsel? Weel, weel, I thocht as muckle, whiles, when she was comin' aboot us wi' a' her winsome ways. May she hae been early seekin' the face she will maybe see gin lang!"

So Morag gained her point. Her travelling preparations were not long in being made; and, though she had not many hours of sleep that night, she was all ready to go down the hill with her father in the morning.

Just before she started, Kenneth came running up to the shieling in breathless haste. He carried with him the old tartan plaid which had done such sad duty in the fir-wood. Wrapping it carefully round Morag, he stood watching her wistfully, as she started in the grey dawn of a December morning on this first journey into the world beyond the mountains!

---

It was Christmas Eve. A fresh fall of snow lay spotless and shining on the ground. The moon was giving a clear, plentiful light, and as it shimmered on the snow-covered streets and squares, it seemed suddenly to transform them into groups of stately marble palaces.

A pleasant crimson glow came from the close-curtained windows of Mr. Clifford's London mansion, shedding a warm, rosy light on the white crisp pavement in front, where stood a group of German lads singing a fine rolling Christmas carol.

Little did they guess how dreary and tenantless those rooms were to-night, which seemed to them to enclose such a paradise of delights as they kept gazing up to the windows, in the hope of an appreciative audience from within the crimson glow.

They did not know that the sorrowful interest of the household was centred in one darkened room, where the only child of the house lay, with life ebbing slowly away; nor that the largess which seemed so munificent came from a little hand that was soon to take farewell of all earthly treasures.

They were still singing, by way of gracious acknowledgment of so handsome a gift, when a cab drove up to the door of the house, and out of it stepped our little friend, Morag. The tall footman, her escort, ran up the broad steps, while the little mountaineer stood on the pavement gazing round, bewildered in the midst of a scene so new and strange.

And this was her bonnie wee leddy's home. Did people always stand there and sing beautifully, she wondered, as she glanced at the German band—and then at the many bright-curtained windows of Blanche Clifford's London home.

At length the great hall door was opened, and a blaze of light fell on the snowy steps. Within were vistas of gilded pillars and corridors, and glimpses of bright soft hangings. To Morag's dazzled eyes, it seemed like the entrance to an enchanted palace. She tremblingly followed her guide, and the door was closed behind her, as the singing boys were watching with interest the little girl who looked so eagerly at everything; and somehow seemed to remind them of their sisters and their homes in the Black Forest.

Another tall footman, the fac-simile of Morag's guide, had opened the door, and now he stood gazing, more curiously than kindly, at the stranger.

"Law, Thomas! what 'ave we got here? Well, I never. Where did you catch that 'un," he said, with a rude laugh as he stood staring at the little girl.

Poor Morag certainly presented a grotesque enough appearance as she stood there in the brightly-lighted hall, wrapped in the great tartan plaid, which was fastened behind, while the ends fell on the ground. And on her head she wore a little scarlet hood, a relic of her infancy, which she had taken from the depths of the old kist—feeling certain that Ellis would look on her more favorably if she wore a bonnet. But, unfortunately, the hood was of such small dimensions that it had a constant tendency towards the back of her neck, leaving her black elf-like locks streaming around.

"Come now, Sparks, none of your cheek. She's the nicest little shaver possible—an uncommon decent little thing; wasn't no trouble on the way, neither; always turned up all right when a fellow wanted to go and smoke a pipe, or get a drop of somethink. My word, I'd go back with her to-morrow, I would."

"Where's Ellis?—ring for her, will you? I must get this little girl off my hands now. How is missie, by the way?"

"Better again, to-day, they say. Master is looking brisker, too. Dreadful dull Christmas-time for a fellow, though. There's Ellis wouldn't laugh for a sovereign."

Meanwhile, Morag stood looking eagerly round. She felt sure that she would see her bonnie wee leddy emerge from some of those vistas of brightness; but when she did not come, the little girl began to feel very forlorn as she stood there in the hall. She could not understand what the servants were saying, and she began to wonder what was going to happen next, and longed for a sight of her gracious little friend, who never had failed her before.

Morag had no idea how seriously ill Blanche was, and she had been hoping during her journey that perhaps her bonnie wee leddy might be quite well again by the time she arrived. She had got so quickly well after the loch adventure; and Morag could not conceive of her looking more fragile that she did on that evening when she saw her last, in the old castle of Glen Eagle, lying on the sofa, wrapped in her blue flannel dressing-gown.

At length Ellis came bustling along; and even she was a welcome sight to poor Morag in her forlornness.

"Well, little girl; how d'ye do. Very glad to see you—never thought I should feel so glad to see you. I thought you would come to see missie. Miss Prosser told me the master had sent for you. Miss Clifford does know not yet. She's so weak, you see; any hagitation is bad, but I daresay you will see her in the morning. It's a good step from the 'ighlands—ain't it? I expect you are tired—poor thing," said Ellis, glancing rather pityingly at Morag's wistful face.

"I'm no that tired. But she's no jist verra ill, is she? I thocht maybe she would hae been weel gin noo," said Morag, ruefully returning to the subject that lay nearest her heart, as Ellis led her along what seemed to her a maze of brightly-lighted passages.

"It wasna fallin' intil the loch that hurtit her, think ye?" she asked presently.

"Well, now, I shouldn't wonder though that chill had something to do with it," replied Ellis, as if she had received a new idea. "Poor dear missie, she is so sweet—almost too good to live, as the sayin' is. She's much better to-day. I daresay she'll be able to have a look at you to-morrow."

Morag's heart sank. The thought of seeing her bonnie wee leddy at the end of her journey had kept her brave through its fears and discomforts; but now she heard that another night must elapse before they could meet, and she would be left alone among all those strangers. It seemed so cruel and hard; and Morag felt sure that if her wee leddy knew she was here, she would not ask her to wait till to-morrow.

Meanwhile, Ellis led the way to the housekeeper's room, leaving Morag to be warmed and fed and generally comforted by Mrs. Worthy. The old housekeeper welcomed the forlorn little maiden kindly, and after divesting her of the tartan plaid, and providing a comfortable supper, she made her sit down in a big arm-chair by the fire,—and, taking a similar one for herself, she began to recall reminiscences of Glen Eagle, and to make inquiries about the dwellers in the Glen whose aquaintance she had made during these autumn months.

Presently, Blanche's illness became the topic of conversation, and Morag listened eagerly to all Mrs. Worthy had to say about it. Her heart sank when she heard how very ill her bonnie wee leddy had been. After looking meditatively into the fire for some time, she looked up and said eagerly, "I'm thinkin', Mistress Worthy, gin they wad jist bring her til the auld castle o' Glen Eagle to bide, and lat her rin aboot wi' Shag and Chance and me, when the snaw gaes awa, and the bit flooers begin to creep up, she wad get braw and strong again."

"Well, there's no sayin', little girl. I likes to see young folks take a cheerin' view of things. 'While there's life, there's 'ope,' I always say. There's my Sarah Jane was once a-spittin' up—and there ain't a stronger woman to be found nowhere, now; and there's"—

Here Mrs. Worthy's family chronicle of illnesses was interrupted by a bell ringing violently within the room. It sounded so startling, that Morag jumped to her feet, and even Mrs. Worthy looked somewhat alarmed as she rose to answer it.

"Bless me, it ain't often that bell is a ringin'—so shockin' loud, too! What's the hurry, I wonder?" and the old woman bustled away, leaving her companion alone.

Morag thought she could guess why the bell had just rung; and hoped that it might prove a summons for her to go to the bonnie wee leddy. She sat listening eagerly for the sound of returning footsteps, but no messenger appeared; so Morag's hope died away at last, and she began to feel very forlorn indeed.

As she sat, looking dreamily into the flickering fire, she remembered another evening when she found herself seated in Mrs. Worthy's arm-chair, in the midst of unwonted comforts, and how very frightened and uncomfortable she was till the wee leddy had suddenly appeared and made her feel so safe and happy.

And as she gazed among the glowing coals, she realized, as she never had before, what an eventful evening that had been, and how much had happened during these never-to-be-forgotten autumn days. All at once, her lonely child-life seemed to be filled with love and brightness, and the very hills and glens of her mountain home to be glorified, as she strayed among them with her bonnie wee leddy. And then the friendship with Kirsty Macpherson had grown out of these days too, and what happy changes it had brought to the little shieling among the crags! Her father's brow was cleared of its perpetual gloom; he never said bitter things about his neighbors in the Glen now, and when Morag and he went together to the kirk, so many people seemed glad to see him there.

And as Morag Dingwall's thoughts went slipping back to these golden autumn days, that had been so full of blessing for her, she lifted up her heart in thankfulness to God for the best thing among all the many good things which they had brought to her—the knowledge of the Lord Jesus Christ, her Saviour. Had the wee leddy learnt to love Him too, she wondered, as she remembered the last talk in Glen Eagle; and then she thought, joyfully, how much there would be to hear and tell to-morrow, when Ellis had promised she should see her friend.

As she sat gazing into the fire, Morag fell asleep in the big arm-chair; and in her dreams she thought she was again with Blanche, struggling through the rippling water, like the Pilgrims in the picture. But neither of them appeared to feel frightened, as they had when they were almost drowned in the loch. At first the water seemed smooth and shining, and Morag could hear the bonnie wee leddy's silvery voice calling to her to come away, for she saw the Golden City quite clearly now—and that the gates were really wide open still, though it was so late at night. Then Morag, all at once, began to feel afraid, for she could see no city lying in the sun; but only a great leaden-looking wave, which came creeping towards her, throwing its gray shadow on the shining water; then she lost sight of her bonnie wee leddy, and could only hear her voice calling her to come. But Morag thought she could not cross the dark wave, and the silvery voice began to sound very far away; and at last she awoke, trembling,—feeling so glad to think that after all it was only a dream.

The fire, which had been so bright and warm when she fell asleep, was now cold and black. The candles, too, were almost burnt to their sockets; and Morag saw that she must have slept for a long time. She began to wonder where Mrs. Worthy was, and whether they meant to leave her there, till they came to take her to see the bonnie wee leddy in the morning.

She would not have treated her so, thought Morag, with quivering lip, as she looked blankly round the solitary room, where everything seemed so gray and cheerless, and she shivered as she remembered the leaden wave of her dream, and began to feel very frightened and homesick, besides being cold and wearied.

Presently she heard the sound of footsteps re-echoing along the silent corridor, and Mrs. Worthy walked slowly into the room with her nightcap on. In her hand she carried a candle, which she almost dropped in her astonishment at seeing Morag seated there.

"Bless my soul, child! are you here still? I was just on my way to bed. I declare I had quite forgotten all about you. Dear, dear, my 'ead's quite confused—and no wonder! Poor dear, you must be sadly tired. Too bad of Ellis not to have taken you to bed. She promised to see after you when she was sent along to you. I've just only now come from missie's room—dear angel: she does look so sweet. You'll see her to-morrow, my poor dear!"

And then, noticing Morag's wistful look as she murmured, "No the nicht," the old woman pondered for a while, and taking the candle again, she said, "Well, well, there can't be no 'arm: they are all cleared away now! Come, I'll take you, poor dear. You haven't been well treated noways among us all, and I heard the master tell Ellis that she was to look to you, and he would see you himself to-morrow."

Morag's heart leapt for joy. If she could only see her bonnie wee leddy even for a minute, and feel her protecting touch again, she would forget all her past troubles and be quite safe and happy in this strange land.

She followed Mrs. Worthy with joyful steps as she led her along the passages, which were cold and dark now. She smiled as she thought how astonished the wee leddy would be to see her mountain friend, for she remembered Ellis had said that she was not to be told of her arrival till next morning; but it was so good and kind of Mrs. Worthy to take her now. And then she tried to picture to herself how Blanche would be looking. Would she find her lying on a sofa, dressed in her pretty blue dressing-gown, which she wore on the evening she saw her last at the old castle of Glen Eagle? And would she seem much paler than she did then? Morag feared she might, when she remembered what a long time she had laid in bed; but summer days would soon come again, and the sunshine, which the bonnie leddy loved so well, would be sure to make her strong again.

Indeed, in her secret heart, Morag cherished the hope that her own presence might act as a talisman, and she smiled to think of the pleasant voice that would soon bid her welcome; for, since the dark hour in the fir-wood, when she thought Blanche had left the Glen without remembering to say farewell, Morag had never doubted the love and friendship of her gracious little friend.

At last Mrs. Worthy stopped at a closed door, and as she lowered the candle which she held in her hand, Morag caught sight of a familiar friend lying on the mat.

Chance was waiting there in a listening posture, with his nose against the door. Morag stooped down and patted him, but, instead of jumping up at her in outrageous welcome, as he used to do, he merely gave a faint wag of his tail, and looking wistfully into her face, raised a low, whining cry, and put his nose close to the door again.

"I'm thinkin' Chance will be wantin' in—to get a sicht o' her too," said Morag, smiling.

"Yes, poor brute; hanimals has a deal of feelin'. He's been in a dreadful way; indeed I thought they locked him up for the night, but he seems to have got loose again," replied Mrs. Worthy, as she opened the door and stepped softly in, followed by Morag and Chance.

The little girl looked eagerly round among the mirrors and pictures and pretty statuettes for the face which had never failed before to smile a sunny welcome upon her, but her bonnie wee leddy was nowhere to be seen, and a terrible stillness seemed to pervade the room.

Drawing aside the rose-colored curtains of a little bed, which Morag had not noticed in her eager glance round the room, Mrs. Worthy beckoned for the little girl to come near, and Morag looked at last on the face of her bonnie wee leddy. She seemed sleeping peacefully; the golden curls lay in rich masses on the pillow, and the fluttering fingers were at rest on the white coverlet. The room was dimly lighted, and a shadow fell from the curtain on her face; so Morag drew closer that she might see her more clearly—feeling a pang of disappointment that she was asleep. But had not Ellis said that to-morrow morning she would speak to her? and she could wait.

"She's sleepin' richt soun' the noo, I'm thinkin'," she whispered softly to Mrs. Worthy, who was holding back the curtain.

"Sleeping! yes, my little dear, you are right. Children does put things nice at times. Dear angel—not dead, but sleeping: a long, long sleep, till the resurrection morn!"

With a long, low cry of anguish, Morag knelt beside the dead body of her bonnie wee leddy, and kissed her cold, dead hand!

She understood it all now. Blanche Clifford had passed away on this Christmas Eve from our lower world—with all its lights and shadows, all its wealth and all its woe—to that other, where the pure in heart are perfectly blessed, for they see God!

---

Perhaps here we should take farewell of our mountain maiden; for, with the passing away from earth of her bonnie wee leddy, ended the childhood of Morag Dingwall, never again to visit her, save in dreams of the night and memories of the past!

We shall but cast a glance across the vista of years, when these autumn days lay far away in the calm, clear distance, and seem like a tale that is told;—when Kirsty has laid down her frail body to sleep in the little graveyard on the hillside, to await the coming of the Lord she loved so well;—when the keen eyes of the keeper Dingwall no longer scan the hills and moors of Glen Eagle, nor his steady hand takes unerring aim; for his stalwart form lies mouldering in the shadow of the hills he has so often trod!

The keeper's earthly life had closed in the midst of less vivid hopes, perhaps, and shadowed by more bitter memories, than Kirsty's blameless years had wrought. But he, too, had learnt to live in the faith and hope of the words which welcomed him to the table of the Lord below, and to know it to be a "faithful saying, that 'Jesus Christ came into the world to save sinners.'"

The shieling among the crags, which had been his home so long, was a roofless ruin now. And long dank grass and nettles grew on the earthen floor, which had proved, of old, such a sea of trouble to the little Morag.

Kenneth Macpherson, Kirsty's grandson, reigned over the realms of deer and moor-fowl in the Glen now; and the keeper's daughter had become the keeper's wife.

Their home was the loveliest spot in all the strath—a pleasant, light, airy, well-built cottage, placed at a sunny angle of the pine forest, which protected it from the cold north winds when they swept along the Glen.

Firwood Neuk, for so it had been called by its owners, possessed every pretty and useful accessory, within and without, which peasant life could require. It was quite a model homestead, with its wealthy barn-yard and farmstead, and its pretty productive garden—the last earthly gift of a little vanished hand, which had dropped its earthly treasures as she used to do her wild flowers in these woods long ago, when anything more precious came in sight.

Mr. Clifford never came to shoot in Glen Eagle again; but, nevertheless, he was more than faithful to the wishes of his child, and Blanche's friends lacked for nothing which money could supply—humbly and gratefully accepted by these proud Highland spirits as the benefaction of the gracious child who had loved them all so well.

Often, indeed, Mr. Clifford had been tempted, during the earlier years, to go beyond his daughter's wishes when he noticed Morag's insatiable thirst for knowledge: to take her from her quiet haunts, and bring art and culture to aid in her training. But he called to mind Blanche's wise decision, and left the child of the mountains to her "lowlier, more unlettered fate."

Still, Morag's intellectual cravings were not unprovided for. In one of the rooms of her pleasant home there stood a pretty book-case filled with rows of shining books—another memorial of Blanche's love. And, among the handsome bindings, there were interspersed certain old, worn books, which were very dear to Morag's heart, for had they not been taken from the depths of the old kist?—and stood there, among the newer volumes, like ancient historical monuments surrounded by pretty modern villas.

---

It was the twelfth of August, and the keeper's wife stood waiting in the gloaming for her husband, who had not yet returned from the moors.

The work of the day was done, and the children safely folded for the night,—for there were young voices again re-echoing through the forest, and little feet toddling among the brown fir-needles.

Her husband was not yet in sight, so presently Morag wandered into the fir-wood, where the great aisles of pine reared themselves calm and stately as of old.

Leaning against one of the old red firs, which seemed written over with many memories to her, she called to mind one August day long ago. And as she stood gazing dreamily there, she seemed to see again the lovely, singing child, coming like a happy fate towards the desolate little maiden who leant there on that bright morning, to hear again the "glad tidings of great joy" borne unconsciously by the silvery voice to a listening ear and waiting soul, and to feel the soft, sisterly touch of the little fluttering hand that sent glow and warmth to a heart which, but for that touch of human sympathy, might have turned to stone.

Morag had seen many gentle ladies, old and young, since these autumn days long ago. The solitary Glen had got into guide-books now, and every year brought many strangers to roam among its woods and hills; but never could any other dwell in her memory as Blanche Clifford did—never, she thought, could she see "her like again!"

Many a year had come and gone since that memorable twelfth of August, when the southern guests came to seek their pleasure among the moors of Glen Eagle. Silver lines were visible on Morag's once raven black locks, and her step was slower than it used to be, as she sauntered through the old red fir-trees, which were all aglow in the sunset.

With a sigh of weariness she at last seated herself on a gray, lichen-spotted dyke which skirted the forest.

"Ay! and she'll aye be young, though I'm growin' auld," she murmured, for she still retained her ancient habit of speaking her thoughts aloud, acquired in her solitary childhood.

Leaning her head upon her hand, she sat watching the sun as it sank behind the old castle of Glen Eagle.

---

The amber clouds were hovering round the dying sun, like ponderous gates ready to close on the inner vistas of gold and crimson. Morag sat gazing with glistening eyes at the cloud-land scene; she well knew that "richest tenderest glow" which lingers round the autumnal sun, and always loved to watch it.

"It's growin' cauld and mirk, and I maun be goin' home," murmured Morag, as she rose to go down the hill, when all had faded into grey twilight. Then she added, softly: "She liket weel to see the sun gae doun amang oor hills; an' it aye min's me upo' her. Bonnie wee leddy! 'Thy sun shall no more go down, neither shall thy moon withdraw its shining, for the Lord is thine everlasting light, and thy God thy glory.'"

---

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