That Tells of Winter's Tales and Mirth

I. 1726

Ewen reached upwards to grip the next branch, the soft red-tinged bark flaking beneath his palms and the feathery strands of the moss tickling his fingers. He pulled himself up, steadied his feet on the bigger and sturdier branch below and then leaned over the upper one, holding himself in place with his arms.

This pine tree, an ancient and rather gnarled specimen standing in regal splendour by the eastern shore of Loch na h-Iolaire, had been one of Ewen's favourite climbing trees ever since he had grown tall enough to reach the first crucial handhold above the ground, but he had never climbed so high as this before. Just above him was a dead branch, and the gap its bareness made in the otherwise dense crown of dark needles gave him a splendid view down to the ground and out over the loch. Having attained this height, he rested where he was and regarded his little kingdom. There was the water below, calm and sparkling enchantingly in the low sunlight, and a heron flying slowly over it towards the island; there were the slopes on the far side, dusted with the previous night's snowfall; there was his own house, looking comically tiny at this great distance. A figure moved across the garden, and Ewen squinted towards it: was it Aunt Marget, out feeding the hens?

'Be careful up there, Mac 'ic Ailein!' called a voice from below. Ewen glanced down. The voice belonged to Neil MacMartin, who, whatever were his opinions on the general wisdom of small boys climbing trees, took his duty towards the reckless young foster-brother who was also his chieftain very seriously, and watched over Ewen with care. He frowned up at Ewen now, shielding his eyes from the sun.

'I'm careful, Neil!' said Ewen happily, looking down at his foster-brother, and thinking about the sense of his words no more than he thought about the distance to the ground, or the bare and sharp rock by the foot of the tree. 'I shan't fall!'

Neil's warning had distracted him from his contemplation of the wider view, and, looking up again, he now found his gaze drawn to the tree itself. The fissures and ridges of its bark made their own little world, like the soaring hills and deep glens of a miniature Highlands; here grew forests of moss and tangled thickets of grey-green lichen, and amongst them lived numbers of tiny creatures, crawling and climbing and burrowing. Ewen watched, absorbed, as a beetle perhaps half the size of his smallest fingernail made its laborious progress across one of the 'glens'. He wondered how old the tree was—perhaps hundreds of years; perhaps older than the house...

Suddenly his feet slipped on the branch below him. In peering about him, he had leaned out further than he meant to, and lost his balance—and now there was nothing below his feet but air—

A confused jumble of pine needles and sky and rock-strewn ground tumbled across his vision; he heard Neil cry out below him. Then...

—then the world stopped moving, so suddenly that it was more bewildering than the fall itself had been. For a few moments Ewen was aware of nothing but feeling terribly dizzy; then he sat carefully up, and found himself sitting on a lower branch of the pine tree.

'Ewen, are you all right?' said Neil, who had run over to stand beneath him, as if poised to catch him in his arms.

'Yes—yes, I'm not hurt,' he said, moving his limbs experimentally to test the truth of this. It was, he found, true: the branch on which he had landed was covered with an amazingly thick growth of moss—a dense, springy kind—and this had cushioned his fall perfectly. With one hand digging into the soft moss beside him and the other braced against the trunk for stability, he looked up at the canopy and down at Neil, getting his bearings.

And this was oddly difficult to do. For, looking towards where he had been before he fell and comparing the view with his current position, he was sure that there had been no such lower branch just here before.

'—It was, it was magic, Aunt Marget, I'm sure of it!'

Ewen had been reluctant, at first, to tell his aunt the full story of his day's adventure; but the risk of being chastised for irresponsible risk-taking was in the end outweighed by the overwhelming importance of telling her about the only possible explanation—so he had decided it was—for what had happened.

'I know there wasn't a branch there before—I saw it when I was at the top. The tree didn't want me to fall and hurt myself, so it made there be a branch there to catch me. It saved me!'

Various feelings contended in Margaret Cameron's mind as she regarded her nephew. There was alarm, naturally, at the danger he had been in, and relief that he was unhurt after all; bafflement at his strange interpretation of the event; amusement at his vehemence in telling the story; but, most of all, there was a great love for her wild, reckless, forthright and warm-hearted lad.

'Well,' she said at last, 'I am very glad you're safe, Ewen. Come here'—and she knelt down to his level and embraced him, he flinging his arms round her neck in return. When they separated, Ewen was smiling his very own smile, full of mischief and daring and the enchantment of childhood. 'Well,' she said, 'perhaps it was magic, then.'

II. 1734

'Good morning, Ewen!'

Ewen, who had just finished adjusting his plaid at his shoulder and was now looking out of the window at a view of gardens and fields drenched by the night's rain, turned in time to see his cousin's smiling face appear round the door of the dressing-room.

'Good morning, Alan,' he returned. 'I hope you slept well?'

They had exchanged a few such pleasantries when the sound of the pipes, which had been silent for the last few minutes, struck up again from below the window.

'You have a fine piper!' observed Alan. 'What's his name—a MacMartin, isn't he?'

'Yes, Angus MacMartin. My foster-father,' said Ewen, opening the window. Clear, cold winter air drifted into the room—in its smell, and in the feel of the air against Ewen's face, was such a strong memory of rain that it was almost difficult to believe that the rain itself had stopped hours ago—along with the clearer sound of the pipes, playing a piobaireachd which was one of Ewen's favourites. The air and the sound together carried his heart for a moment as though upon the rushing waters of a burn in spate, out towards the dear cloud-brushed moors above Loch na h-Iolaire—whither, if the weather did not turn again, he and Alan would go later that day.

Now, however, they went downstairs to speak to Angus MacMartin, for Alan wished to compliment his playing personally. And it was while he stood upon the threshold of the house, halfway through a morning greeting to his aunt in the hallway behind him, that Ewen suddenly recalled a curious thing.

He did not speak of it immediately; but when he, Alan and Aunt Margaret were all outside the house speaking with Angus, he said, 'Now, Alan, tell me something. I was indoors yesterday afternoon, and I only saw you ride up to the house. Which way did you come to Ardroy—was it up from Achnacarry, as usual?'

'How funny you should ask that!' said Alan. 'No, 'twas not. I meant to go that way, but the burns in Gleann Cia-aig were so swollen with rain that I could not pass the fords—I dare say I could have attempted it,' he added—loth to betray the Highland reputation for feats in fording unfriendly waters—'but I was alone, and my garron did not like the prospect—well, in the end I went round by Loch Lochy and took the high route over the pass instead.'

Angus MacMartin had lifted his head with a knowing look at this speech, and Aunt Margaret had raised her eyebrows. 'Well,' said Ewen, 'I shall explain myself. My foster-father'—he nodded at Angus—'has the two sights. Before you arrived, he "saw" you coming over that pass from Loch Lochy. I thought perhaps you and I were to go out riding that way during your visit, but I was not there, Angus said. I couldn't think why you would take that road to get here—but that was before this rain began, of course.'

'No, I did not know why you came that way,' said Angus now. He spoke quietly and with dignity—in fact, in the same tone he had used when recounting his vision to Ewen a few days ago. 'But you did. And so you have.'

'What a remarkable thing!' said Alan, with a little laugh. 'Angus, your talents are many. I ought to thank you again.'

The cousins did not, in the end, get their day out hunting. Some of the cottages near the Allt Buidhe burn had been damaged by the flooding, and Ewen, receiving the news of this calamity while he sat at breakfast, determined on himself going over to speak to the unfortunate tenants that day, to arrange repairs to the cottages and see that they had everything they needed; and Alan went with him.

But Ewen did not tell his cousin all the thoughts that were in his mind that day.

Ewen took very seriously his training as a gentleman, as well as his responsibilities as a laird. He prided himself on finding opportunities to demonstrate the honourable and rational behaviour which he expected of himself; and so, much as he respected his foster-father, he had determined not to believe in his "sight", and refused to take his prophecies very seriously. In fact, until that morning he had managed to forget that Angus had "seen" Alan at all. But other instincts still influenced his mind; and for a while there had been, half-buried beneath the comfortable scepticism, a secret dread of the meaning of Angus's vision of his cousin. Perhaps some dreadful accident upon the road would lead Alan to take the wrong route to Ardroy; perhaps he was indeed returning from an expedition with Ewen, and there was some sinister reason why Ewen himself was no longer there; or perhaps the vision preceded some calamity that would overtake Alan on his journey...

Well, no such thing had happened. Alan was here and perfectly safe. In the midst of inspecting the damaged cottages and making arrangements for their inhabitants' relief, Ewen reassured his own mind with that thought. No doubt Angus's predictions were uncanny; this one certainly had come true in a very curious way; but it had been quite a harmless and everyday sort of happening in the end. "Seeings" did not portend disaster; this one had not, and now Ewen assured himself that they never would do so.

III. 1738

The diamond panes of the broad window glittered in the light of the candles placed generously about the room; but their brilliance was not enough entirely to obscure the gentler light of the first stars rising over the rooftops of Paris on the far side of the glass, and nor did the merry sounds of talk and laughter from the crowd gathered in the room quite dispel the silent calm of those stars in the sky of deep blue and gold.

Ewen Cameron, standing with a glass of wine in one hand on the edge of the gathering, where he had retreated for a few moments' rest, watched the window meditatively. The winter twilight lingered long in this country, he reflected. It was nearly midwinter; over Loch na h-Iolaire the sun would have set perhaps an hour ago, and disappeared behind the mountains earlier than that. Of all the divers differences—in geography, architecture, customs, manners, food and many other things—between his home and the country to which he had come for his education, it was a small and trivial one, and yet it impressed itself upon his senses with a disproportionate significance. He gazed out of the window for a few minutes more, as those faint stars grew in strength and became more like those which, perhaps, looked down over Ardroy at this moment.

'Ardroy! Now what are you doing, skulking there in the corner?—'tis not like you! Come and join us.'

Ewen looked round, and his eyes met the pair of smiling dark ones which belonged to David Farquharson, one of the many compatriots whom he had befriended in Paris. Less fortunate than himself, David was not here merely for his education, for his family, as dedicated as Ewen's own in the expression of their shared political allegiances, had been exiles from their native land for many years, and this brave Jacobite son must content himself with a commission in the Royal Écossais in place of the handsome Aberdeenshire estate which would never now be his.

'La Vireville and I were discussing,' he said to Ewen, in a conspiratorial undertone which managed to make itself quite distinct amidst the hum of conversation which surrounded them as they crossed the room together, 'the poetry he says you've both been making such headway with lately. Wonderful stuff, Horace, though I confess to some gladness that my own days of wrestling with hexameters are behind me.'

'Don't talk to me of hexameters, Farquharson!' said Ewen in a tone of feigned dismay. 'Were you not just saying we are here to enjoy ourselves, not—ah, La Vireville!'

For they had reached the far side of the room and Philippe, Comte de la Vireville, Ewen's fellow student at the Sorbonne and David's cousin by marriage. 'I wondered where you had got to,' said Philippe happily. 'No, I shan't say anything of hexameters. We have far more important things to discuss, for Sophie speaks of bringing us all over to her splendid new house in the carriage some day—perhaps not till the roads are a little better, but that merely gives us time to plan the excursion properly! What say you, Ardroy?'

Ewen expressed his admiration for this plan and for Sophie, Philippe's sister, who had recently married a nobleman whose estate lay a few hours' carriage journey outside the city. Together the three friends plunged into a discussion of the scheme and its details. Farquharson and La Vireville were both perfectly genuine in their enthusiasm for this and the other subjects into which their conversation presently drifted—the company; the excellent food always to be found at Madame Vincent's; a splendid joke which La Vireville had played the other day upon one of his and Ewen's tutors—and it did not occur to Ewen that his friends might have had any less simple motive for drawing him so deliberately into their carefree conversation. He seldom thought of how other people did regard him, either as an object of admiration or of sympathy; and he would not have supposed that they could have known anything of the slightly melancholic mood into which he had fallen beside the window.

During a pause in the conversation, he glanced back again towards where he had lately been standing. The night was quite black now. As he watched, an unobtrusive servant appeared from a side door and set about closing the curtains against it.

But Ewen gave it little further thought, for La Vireville was beginning another of his anecdotes—and here was their hostess bringing a friend of hers to be introduced to them—and there were so many other things to which to turn one's attention. For now, this bright little room a world away from his home held merely the merriment and warmth of the present.

IV. 1745

Snow fell quietly over the fields to either side of the road. Hiding from view the greater distance of the Derbyshire fells before them, it left the long column of Highlanders as if stranded and isolated along the length of the strange English road upon which they marched, between green fields all turned to white. They might have been a fairy army in an uncanny land.

To Ewen, the truth of their journey seemed to have little more reality than these strange surroundings. Ever since they had, unexpectedly and bewilderingly, turned back from Derby and begun the retreat towards the north, the mood amongst the Highland Army had been one of bleak, powerless rage. The previous day had seen more than one shameful little scuffle with English villagers, the result of a sort of sulky frustration which did no credit to them who had been the proud victors of Gladsmuir; Ewen, hearing the stories of clansmen having killed an innkeeper and fired volleys towards a church on the road to Leek, had spoken to his own men about these incidents, warning them that the loss of their goal was no cause for them to forget their honour. That the English persisted in calling them barbarian rebels was only the more reason to behave as the lawful and honourable soldiers they, as true Jacobites, knew themselves to be.

Now, tramping along the icy road between snow-capped drystone walls, the gently falling snow seemed to calm and muffle everything, quieting any rage before it could express itself. Ewen glanced round at Neil and Lachlan, walking behind him with their dark heads bent, and thought that perhaps he had spoken too hotly to them yesterday. Of course the Camerons of Ardroy were honourable; he ought to have trusted in it.

Yet perhaps not. There had, after all, been another occasion—though last summer was very long ago now—when his foster-brothers themselves had treated an enemy without a thought of honour, and caused great shame to Ewen himself.

It was a strange thought so suddenly to occur to him, but it somehow seemed in keeping with the otherworldly isolation of the surroundings. And England was Captain Windham's own country, after all... With a sort of idle detachment, Ewen remembered his erstwhile prisoner's warnings, which he had at first refused to hear and later answered with the sparkling flippancy of the triumph in Edinburgh—'this mumming will turn to grim earnest some day'...

Was it grim earnest now? This day seemed hardly anything real at all.

But—for some reason which did not seem to follow from anything else in his thoughts—it was not Keith Windham's warnings to him that he now remembered most. It was a certain look of Captain Windham's, one at day Kinlochiel, when he was surveying the loch from the door of the little hut they had shared. Ewen could not remember just what Windham had said then—probably one of his sarcastic remarks about the cannon or some such thing—but he remembered being struck by the strange expression upon the captain's face, a sort of frown half thoughtful and half mournful, as he had turned away from Ewen to regard the shore of the loch. It had been raining then, not snowing. Why think of it now?...

Beneath their feet the snow and mud, churned up by hundreds of feet, formed an icy slush which had splashed most of the way up Ewen's stockings and kept insinuating itself down his legs in further freezing droplets. He took off his bonnet and brushed the snowflakes from it with a determined little movement, then turned round again and spoke a few words to his foster-brothers—more kindly than he had done yesterday. For they must keep their courage up. Lochiel had been in favour of the retreat, and so the decision must not be as hopeless as it seemed to many of the men; and already there were reports going round of plans for their meeting reinforcements in Scotland, strengthening their position there and then making another attempt for London. The Cause was not lost; the Highland Army would emerge from this awful unreality into another and a brighter day.

Ewen raised his head in the face of the falling snow, and marched onwards.

V. 1750

The once noble parkland oaks had become pale, weird ghosts of themselves, standing indistinct amidst a grey sea which covered the ground and filled the air above. A loose flock of rooks and jackdaws were making their way across the grass and between the trees, their dark beating wings appearing suddenly from out of the fog before vanishing back into it; the rough caws of the one and the high, chacking cries of the other were the only things which cut through the white gloom.

'No,' said Keith, screwing up his eyes, ''tis not Stowe at its most impressive, I must admit.'

He and Ewen were making their way round the side of the great house. The cold air and the damp fog were sharp upon Ewen's skin; they could not be more than a few dozen yards from the house itself, but it was currently visible only as a vague suggestion of solidity amongst the clouds to one side.

Ewen had arrived at the country seat of Keith's stepfather, the Earl of Stowe, two days ago. The house—at least, when the entirety of its facade could be seen at once—presented a decidedly grand and imposing appearance with its massive, ornate columns and its high arches; it was certainly a different sort of place from anything in the Highlands, and different again from the rather miscellaneous series of lodgings in which Ewen had stayed during the late years of exile upon the Continent. Though it was not quite so unfamiliar a setting as it might have been, or as the Earl had evidently assumed it would be (Ewen's casual mention of his visit to Versailles four years ago had caused a certain amount of politely-hidden surprise). The satin and powder in which he had arrayed himself for dinner the day before had brought back memories of the old days in Paris—and then of other days, not in France but in Edinburgh...

Later in the evening, however, Keith had made it quite plain that he preferred Ewen without his satin finery. And with this Ewen had agreed; but, regardless, he was glad to be in any place where Keith was beside him.

A classical temple, one of the recent installations of the Earl, loomed out of the fog before them. The yellow sandstone of its columns was darkened by the damp air, and the decorative carvings of its domed roof were half hidden as they ascended into the clouds.

'It may be only a few days after Midwinter,' remarked Ewen, 'but I see no sign of the Romans' Sol Invictus here, at least.'

Keith chuckled. 'We might be in the Highlands, 'tis such miserable weather!' But he squeezed Ewen's hand as he stood beside him; and then indicated that they should go on their way, for he evidently had a certain destination in mind.

They were now approaching the house again from the back; further vaguely-outlined buildings, rather more homely constructions of red brick and pantiles, came gradually into view.

'I don't suppose you visited the stables yourself when you arrived,' said Keith now, 'but they are in that building on the left. I thought I should bring you here—there's someone I'd like you to meet.'

The day seemed to be growing even darker, or perhaps the shadows of the gathered outbuildings added themselves to the gloom of the fog. But, as they approached the stables, a light appeared. It was, Ewen supposed, a lantern which someone had left just within the half-open door of the main stable building, so that its light spilled out across the ground and onto the wall opposite; but its deep yellow glow looked absurdly warm and bright against the bleak grey darkness of the day. It seemed somehow to speak of cheerful warmth and of contented horses, well cared for and sheltering safe from the cold and wet of the winter's day in their comfortable stalls.

After pressing Ewen's hand again, Keith disappeared through the door, and Ewen heard him calling for someone named Masters. Then there was another voice within the building, and something of a commotion—and then Keith pushed open the door, the light broadening where it brightened the air and ground, and said, 'Ewen, come on in! Masters is a great friend of mine—I must introduce you.'

Ewen followed him into the stables.

VI. 1764

The deerhound lying dozing on the hearthrug opened one eye at a sudden spitting flicker from one of the peats; but the fire had died down since the roaring blaze of earlier in the evening, and now nothing more happened to disturb its gentle, contented glow.

'There, it's all right,' said Ewen, reaching a hand down to stroke the deerhound's back. The animal thumped its tail against both the floor and Ewen's legs in reassured acknowledgement and affection, then settled back down to sleep.

'She notices everything,' said Ewen, turning to smile at Keith upon the sofa beside him. 'She was a good companion out on the hunt last year—but she's getting a well-earned rest now.'

'As are we all,' said Keith emphatically, and Ewen laughed. Indeed, he had made this sofa especially comfortable by covering it with blankets, and now he leant back, resting his head against the rough wool, and tightened his arms round Keith.

It had been years since Keith's last visit to Ardroy. Throughout the late war the Royals had been fighting far away, in Canada and then in the Caribbean; and Keith himself had not come through without suffering a certain amount in the perils of battle. Yes, his duty had asked much of him in these last years—and of Ewen. For too long Ewen had been in some doubt whether he ever would come home... but he had returned at last, on the extended leave judged necessary for a full recovery, and as soon as he could attempt the further journey he had come north to Ardroy, where they were now looking forward to a long visit.

Keith had closed his eyes, and his short hair—which had rather more grey amongst its old dark colour than Ewen remembered—brushed against Ewen's chin. Ewen looked down at his lover's face in the firelight, savouring a sight which had been his far too seldom, and which had lately been denied him for so long. Keith looked tired; he was pale, and his sharply drawn features were sharpened further into something like gauntness. For a moment the change in him wrung Ewen's heart with a terrible keen pain. But Keith was smiling. Yes, there was rest here...

They lay there together for some time, not speaking, while the fire died further down, and occasional soft creaking sounds came from the settling of the old house about them. It was very late; the rest of the household were long since gone to bed, and, Ewen thought, it was time they also were going upstairs, for Keith surely needed the sleep. But it was so peaceful here, and he hardly liked to make Keith move when they were so comfortable now; they would stay a little longer.

'I thought of this, you know,' said Keith suddenly, raising his head and turning to meet Ewen's eyes.

'Yes?' said Ewen.

Keith looked for a moment at the sleeping dog on the hearthrug. 'Out in the West Indies,' he said, 'in the middle of the battle. I thought of you, and where you must be, and I imagined you sitting peacefully here by your hearth. It was... a comforting thought.'

Ewen found his hand and squeezed it.

'I wondered if I would ever come here in life again,' said Keith, still speaking in the soft, drowsy voice which suited its surroundings. 'Especially after I was injured—you know what such things are—my thoughts were not as rational as at my better times... but I was glad that I had that thought to hold onto.'

Slowly, Ewen leaned down and kissed him. It was a gentle and tender kiss, and Keith smiled softly as he returned it.

'You got here in the end, love,' said Ewen, his voice a little above a whisper.

'And shall stay,' said Keith, now putting more deliberate strength into his words, 'a long time, so I hope.'

VII. 1783

The air was sharp with frost. Tiny white needles of ice framed the small leaves of the cranberry bushes and stood out along the stems of the rushes; there was ice out on the loch, and the little inlets which Ewen and Keith passed in their walk along the shore were completely frozen over. The hills were white with snow, and the sky as white above them. Keith kept up a smart pace—the result as much of the habit of a military lifetime as of the present need to keep his limbs warm, thought Ewen—but apart from the sounds of his and Ewen's feet upon the frozen ground, it was quite silent.

A greater contrast with the previous evening could not have been imagined. The grand Christmas feast held for the servants and tenants at Ardroy had filled all the downstairs rooms of the big house with light, warmth and good cheer. There had been roast beef, potatoes and turnips (recent innovations which were becoming quite popular—especially when roasted and mashed in such style as the cook and kitchenmaids, who had excelled themselves in the preparation of the feast, had managed today), rich gravy, clootie dumpling, deep red claret and many other good things. Ewen presided over the head table in the parlour. With him sat the younger Ewen Cameron—his cousin and heir—and his wife Jenny; Mr Alastair Forbes, a local Episcopalian clergyman and friend of the family who had presided over their Christmas service; and Keith.

Ardroy had seen many such happy celebrations over the years, but for Ewen this one had been so very much happier than any before, because now at last Keith was here beside him. For the last forty years Keith had lived his roaming soldier's life, going where his duties took him to strange corners of the world and paying visits at Ardroy as often as he might. He had been a constant presence in Ewen's heart when he was absent; but this could never be a substitute for his actual presence, and with his retirement from the Army last summer had come the long-awaited and gladly-welcomed chance to establish himself at Ardroy permanently. And so they were together, and each day they shared all the little details of daily life—so inconsequential in themselves, and adding up to so much—as well as the special occasions like yesterday's celebration. Once such an unexpected and unforeseen element in Ewen's own life, Keith now fitted perfectly into it, and found his own home here.

Keith had heartily approved of the Highland food of yesterday's table.

'Have I introduced you to this old tree before, love?' said Ewen now. They had come to that spot on the shore where there grew a certain old pine tree.

Keith made a show of thinking over the many times Ewen had described to him, in detail born of devoted care, the various wild plants which grew on the estate. 'No,' he concluded, his mouth turning up at one corner in a dear, familiar expression, 'I don't believe you have.'

''Twas my favourite climbing-tree when I was a child,' said Ewen. 'I doubt I could get very far up it now—we're both changed since those days...' Indeed, the old pine was looking rather rugged. The canopy was less thick, and the dead branches greater in number, than they had once been; the largest branch, which had been slowly decaying for several years, had for the last few summers been the home of a family of woodpeckers, whose latest nest-hole Ewen now pointed out.

'But this branch is still here,' said Ewen, reaching up to lay his hand on the moss—as ice-bedecked as everything else on that frozen day—which still grew thick upon that branch which had saved Ewen from his fall so many years ago. He told Keith the story now. 'I suppose,' he finished, smiling, 'I simply hadn't noticed the branch before. But it seemed at the time as if it had appeared by magic—I believe I really thought the tree had conjured it up on purpose to save me.'

Keith, standing beside him, ran his own hand slowly along the cold, rust-coloured bark and the delicate, frozen-dry fronds of moss. 'Well,' he said, 'magical or not, it seems I have much to thank it for.'

Ewen laughed. He thought of the prayers they had said with Mr Forbes at the Christmas service. Amidst the familiar words of hope and joy—of the light of Christ given as a gift to the world in that darkness which was so literally palpable in the Highland midwinter—Ewen had thanked God silently for the gifts in his own life, which, for all its hardships and losses, had been not a few. And, this year, one gift had been more in his heart than any.

Sixty years had changed the landscape over which the old pine tree looked out. As well as those fields which now grew the much-appreciated potatoes and turnips, there were the larch plantation, the improvements and additions made to the house, the laurel bushes planted outside it, the beech avenue now grown to its full height. It was a fine and beautiful scene; and Keith, regarding it now with a smile on his lips and something deeper than that in his hazel eyes, thought it lovely.

But he turned back towards Ewen when Ewen slipped an arm round his waist. They kissed, standing on the frosty ground of the lochside beneath the ancient pine tree; and they stayed there for a little while, and then turned round to make the return walk back to the house.