The mist was clearing, and floated about like a thin veil through which
one could see objects. At a short distance above us on the moor I saw
something moving. It was a man who was playing the pipes. It was the
piper, and almost at once I knew him, because it was actually my own
Feargus, stepping proudly through the heather with his step like a stag
on the hills. His head was held high, and his face had a sort of elated
delight in it as if he were enjoying himself and the morning and the
music in a new way. I was so surprised that I rose to my feet and called
to him.

"Feargus!" I cried. "What--"

I knew he heard me, because he turned and looked at me with the most
extraordinary smile. He was usually a rather grave-faced man, but this
smile had a kind of startling triumph in it. He certainly heard me, for
he whipped off his bonnet in a salute which was as triumphant as the
smile. But he did not answer, and actually passed in and out of sight in
the mist.

When I rose Mr. MacNairn had risen, too. When I turned to speak in my
surprise, he had fixed on me his watchful look.

"Imagine its being Feargus at this hour!" I exclaimed. "And why did
he pass by in such a hurry without answering? He must have been to a
wedding and have been up all night. He looked--" I stopped a second and
laughed.

"How did he look?" Mr. MacNairn asked.

"Pale! That won't do--though he certainly didn't look ill." I laughed