unweariedly kind; silent, indeed, but always ready to help, and always hoping (as I could very well see) that my displeasure would blow by. For the same length of tine I stayed in myself, nursing my anger, roughly refusing his services, and passing him over with my eyes as if he had been a bush or a stone.
The second night, or rather the peep of the third day, found us upon a very open hill, so that we could not follow our usual plan and he down immediately to eat and sleep. Before we had reached a place of shelter, the grey had come pretty clear, for though it still rained, the clouds ran higher; and Alan, looking in my face, showed some marks of concern.
“Ye had better let me take your pack,” said he, for perhaps the ninth time since we had parted from the scout beside Loch Rannoch.
“I do very well, I thank you,” said I, as cold as ice.
Alan flushed darkly. “I’ll not offer it again,” he said. “I’m not a patient man, David.”
“I never said you were,” said I, which was exactly the rude, silly speech of a boy of ten.
Alan made no answer at the time, but his conduct answered for him. Henceforth, it is to be thought, he quite forgave himself for the affair at Cluny’s; cocked his hat again, walked jauntily, whistled airs, and looked at me upon one side with a provoking smile.
The third night we were to pass through the western end of the country of Balquhidder. It came
