"He shouldna hae said the like o' that. The siller isna mine, nor wasna
meant for me, and I'll ne'er touch it. That I wont." "Marry Angus Raith,
and tak' it, Maggie. He loves you weel."

"Angus Raith isna to be thocht o', and it's ill-luck mixing wedding talk
wi' death talk. The minister is right; whatna for are we hurrying up the
future? Let us be still and wait; good, as well as evil comes, and us not
looking for it. I'm sorry you didna hae a pleasanter visit."

"It wasna just unpleasant. I ken weel the minister is right. Put on a
covering turf noo, Maggie, for the tide serves at six o'clock, and I'll be
awa' to Largo the morn."

Maggie was up at gray dawn next morning, while yet the sea birds were
dozing on their perches, looking like patches of late snow in the crannies
of the black rocks. There was no wrath in the tide, only an irresistible
set shoreward. When David was ready for his breakfast, Campbell was ready
also; he said he wished to go with the boat, and David's face lighted up
with satisfaction at the proposal. And Maggie was not ill-pleased to be
left alone. She was restless, and full of strange thoughts, and needed the
calm and strength of solitude.

It was an exquisite morning; the sea was dimpling and laughing in the
sunrise, and great flocks of hungry white sea-birds were making for the
Firth. Maggie folded her plaid around her, and walked to the little pier
to see the boat away; and as she stood there, the wind blew the kerchief
off her head into the water; and she saw Campbell lean forward and pick it
up, and then nod back to her an assurance of its safety. She turned away
half angry at herself for the thrill of pleasure the trifling incident had
given her. "It's my ain folk I ought to be thinking o', and no strangers;