again. "I'm laughing because he looked almost like one of the White
People."

"Are you sure it was Feargus?" he said.

"Quite sure. No one else is the least like Feargus. Didn't you see him
yourself?"

"I don't know him as well as you do; and there was the mist," was his
answer. "But he certainly was not one of the White People when I saw him
last night."

I wondered why he looked as he did when he took my hand and drew me down
to my place on the plaid again. He did not let it go when he sat down by
my side. He held it in his own large, handsome one, looking down on it
a moment or so; and then he bent his head and kissed it long and slowly
two or three times.

"Dear little Ysobel!" he said. "Beloved, strange little Ysobel."

"Am I strange!" I said, softly.

"Yes, thank God!" he answered.

I had known that some day when we were at Muircarrie together he would
tell me what his mother had told me--about what we three might have been
to one another. I trembled with happiness at the thought of hearing him
say it himself. I knew he was going to say it now.

He held my hand and stroked it. "My mother told you, Ysobel--what I am