Lassies are droll creatures, and will tell many things the one to the other in the way of a ploy, and Margaret McBride made great work with old Betty's love potion, and that to Helen alone.

"I will be trying it on Hugh," said she, "when I have you sleeping, for
I will get scraping the white of your nail then."

And now this is the droll thing that came about. We had a day after the otters at the Bennan, a wet cold day, with little that was laughable in it, except that a man of the Macdonalds took an otter home over his shoulders, and the beast dead, as we thought; but coming in at his own door it gripped him by the back of his hip, and at the start he got he let a great cry to his wife in the Gaelic.

"Fell the beast, fell the beast," and the wife, with a beetle in her hand, and in a flurry of excitement to be felling the beast, came a dour on her man's head that felled him, poor man, and we left them then, the otter killed at last, and the man and wife demented with the suddenness of the happenings, and came to the house of Scaurdale.

Now the lassies, Margaret and Helen, were in the mood for a ploy, and Margaret it was who scraped the little white powder from Helen's polished nail. "A wee tashte," she laughed, "old Betty would be saying, 'chust a wee tashte.'" And when the boys came in red-faced and with sparkling eyes (for I was watching the prank), "Now," said Margaret, "I will be giving poor Hugh his dram, and then everything will do finely."

"But," said Helen, "I will be my own cup-bearer, or maybe the charm will be a useless thing." And she took the old glass—a rummer it was—and she carried it very daintily to the boys and bowed.

"Here is refreshment, my tired hunter," said she, and gave the glass into Bryde's hand, and that swarthy hillman raised the glass to the cup-bearer and drained it.

"I will not be very clever, it seems, Hamish," said Margaret.

But I had admiration for Helen, for she came back, laughing very softly. "Now we shall prove your charm, Mistress Margaret," said she; "for truly M'sieu Hugh did not require it, but Bryde—he is cold and hard like his own hills with me."

And that very night it was as though old Betty's havers were potent spells, for Bryde was the fair-haired laddie with the Laird of Scaurdale always, and as the evening wore on he grew a little flushed with wine, so that all his silence left him, and he was very shyly bold and very gallant; but Margaret was stately and proud like her mother, and smiled but little. And Hugh gloomed and laughed by turns, and had an air of patronage to his cousin that was hurtful for me to be seeing in him.

Hugh and Margaret were stopping at Scaurdale, but when the moon was well up Bryde was for the road. At that there was an outcry, for he was the soul of the place. The Laird of Scaurdale would have hindered his going, and Helen made much ado, but his horse was brought, and we came to the door to be seeing him off.

There was a brave moon, and the hillside very plain, and the noise of the burn rumbling—a fine night to be out.

"I could be riding home too," said Margaret.

Bryde slipped his boot from the stirrup.

"Jump," said he, "and in two hours you'll be home, if Hamish and Hugh will be allowing it."

I think she would have liked to go, for I saw the flash in her eyes, and her quick smile, but then—

"No," said she; "it is a little cold here," and turned to go in.

Helen was at the Laird's side.

"But I have never ridden so," said she. "Would Monsieur take me to the bridge—a little way and back," but before the Laird had given his assent she was in the saddle and off with a wave of her arm; and I thought of the night when she had ridden that way once before, with the father of Bryde on the big roadster, and the Laird was thinking the same thing.

They were back in a little; indeed, the hoof-beats were very plain all the time, but Helen was white as she dismounted, and her good-bye was very low, and she listened to the klop-to-klop of the hoofs for a long time before she came in.

That night she came into Margaret's room (for the lass told me everything), and sat down wearily by the bedside.

"Your spell works, Mistress Margaret," said she.

I think Margaret would raise herself on her pillows.

"Ah," said she, "have you brought Bryde to heel, Helen?"

"The spell works," said Helen, "but I think backwards. Margaret, ma belle, he brings me to heel, it seem."

"They all have that knack, my men-folk," said Margaret—"mostly."