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MORAG:

A Tale of the Highlands of Scotland.







New York:
Robert Carter and Brothers, 530 Broadway.
1875.




CONTENTS.


                                                       PAGE

  I.

  _The First Morning in the Glen_                          5

  II.

  _Blanche Clifford_                                       19

  III.

  _Morag's Home_                                           37

  IV.

  _The Fir-wood_                                           52

  V.

  _A Discovery_                                            75

  VI.

  _Kirsty Macpherson_                                     104

  VII.

  _Morag's Visit to Kirsty, and How It Came About_        140

  VIII.

  _The Gypsies At Last_                                   157

  IX.

  _Vanity Fair_                                           205

  X.

  _The Kirk in the Village_                               219

  XI.

  _The Loch_                                              244

  XII.

  _The Empty Hut_                                         274

  XIII.

  _Back in London_                                        288

  XIV.

  _Visit to the Fairy_                                    306

  XV.

  _A Ride in the Park_                                    318

  XVI.

  _The Borders of the Far-off Land_                       331

  XVII.

  _Morag's Journey into the World Beyond the Mountains_   348




MORAG


I.

_THE FIRST MORNING IN THE GLEN._


DO you know the joyous feeling of opening your eyes on the first morning
after your arrival among new scenes, and of seeing the landscape, which
has been shrouded by darkness on the previous evening, lying clear and
calm in the bright morning sunlight?

This was Blanche Clifford's experience as she stood at an eastward
window, with an eager face, straining her eye across miles of moorland,
which undulated far away, like purple seas lying in the golden light.
Away, and up and on stretched the heather, till it seemed to rear itself
into great waves of rock, which stood out clear and distinct, with the
sunlight glinting into the gray, waterworn fissures, lighting them up
like a smile on a wrinkled face. And beyond, in the dim distance, hills
on hills are huddled, rearing themselves in dark lowering masses against
the blue sky, like the shoulders of mighty monsters in a struggle for
the nearest place to the clouds. For many weeks Blanche had been
dreaming dreams and seeing visions of this scene, as she sat in her
London schoolroom. "And this is Glen Eagle!" she murmured, with a
satisfied sigh, when at last she turned her eyes from the more distant
landscape, and climbing into the embrasured window of the quaint old
room in which she awoke that morning, leant out to try and discover what
sort of a building this new home might be. A perpendicular, gaunt wall,
so lichen-spotted that it seemed as if the stones had taken to growing,
was all that she could see; and under it there stretched a smooth grassy
<DW72>, belted by a grove of ancient ash-trees. A pleasant breeze,
wafting a delicious scent of heather, came in at the open window, and
played among Blanche's curls, reminding her how delightful it would be
to go out under the blue sky; so she ran off in search of her papa, that
she might begin her explorations at once.

Mr. Clifford, Blanche's father, was very fond of sport, and generally
spent the autumn months on the moors, either in Ireland or Scotland.
Hitherto his little motherless daughter had not accompanied him on any
of his journeys, but had been left to wander among trim English lanes,
or to patrol the parade of fashionable watering-places, under the
guardianship of her governess, Miss Prosser. This year, however, Blanche
had been so earnest in her entreaties to be taken among the hills, that
her father had at last yielded, and it was arranged that she should
accompany him to Glen Eagle, where he had taken shootings. Miss Prosser
looked on