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قراءة كتاب White Heather (Volume III of 3) A Novel
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WHITE HEATHER (VOL. III)
WHITE HEATHER
A Novel
BY
WILLIAM BLACK
AUTHOR OF 'MACLEOD OF DARE,'
'JUDITH SHAKESPEARE,' ETC.
IN THREE VOLUMES
VOL. III.
London
MACMILLAN AND CO.
1885
The right of translation is reserved.
Printed by R. & R. CLARK, Edinburgh.
CONTENTS OF VOL. III.
CHAPTER I.
CHAPTER II.
CHAPTER III.
CHAPTER IV.
CHAPTER V.
CHAPTER VI.
CHAPTER VII.
CHAPTER VIII.
CHAPTER IX.
CHAPTER X.
CHAPTER XI.
CHAPTER XII.
CHAPTER XIII.
CHAPTER XIV.
CHAPTER XV.
CHAPTER XVI.
WHITE HEATHER.
CHAPTER I.
A MESSAGE.
Clear and brilliant in their blue and white are these shining northern skies; and the winds that come blowing over the moorland are honey-scented from the heather; and the wide waters of the loch are all of a ruffled and shimmering silver, with a thin fringe of foam along the curving bays. And this is Love Meenie that comes out from the cottage and comes down to the road; with perhaps less of the wild-rose tint in her cheeks than used to be there, and less of the ready light of gladness that used to leap into her blue-gray eyes; but still with that constant gentleness of expression that seems to bring her into accord with all the beautiful things in the landscape around her. And, indeed, on this particular morning she is cheerful enough; walking briskly, chatting to the ancient terrier that is trotting at her side, and equably regarding now the velvet-soft shadows that steal along the sunlit slopes of Clebrig, and now the wheeling and circling of some peewits that have been startled from their marshy haunts by the side of the stream.
'And who knows but that there may be a message or a bit of news for us this morning?' she says to the faithful Harry. 'For yonder comes the mail. And indeed it's well for you, my good little chap, that you can't understand how far away Glasgow is; I suppose you expect to see your master at any minute, at every turn of the road. And if he should send you a message—or Maggie either—how am I to tell you?'
The pretty Nelly is at the door of the inn, scattering food to the fowls.
'It's a peautiful moarning, Miss Douglas,' she says.
And here is Mr. Murray, with his pipe, and his occultly humorous air.
'And are you come along for your