The Argosy — page 361: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

340 The Mystery of Allan Grale. The travelling party did not pass many people on the road to the station. ‘They only encountered one vehicle. It was a ruinous cart, drawn bya slow, stout horse, so eccentric in movement that his driver discreetly brought him to a standstill while the carriage passed. This was the equipage of Mittens, going on his collecting rounds. But it had other freight than its usual bags and bundles. Seated on the cart on one of these was Mary Letts and her boy. Edgar Vivian knew them again. Mittens touched his hat as the carriage whirled by. The lad looked out. “That's the young gentleman for whose continued existence in this world I am responsible,” remarked Edgar to his companion, willing to attract her attention to anything which might tend to slacken the tension of her feeling. ‘‘ Did you notice what a start his mother gave when she saw me? I thought she was going to jump out of the cart.” Mrs. Tree was already at the railway station. Ina few minutes they were all seated in the comfortable carriage, and poor Rose was beginning to retrace the journey she had made in such sore haste but a few days before. The sorrowful little group had a very solemn journey. ‘They only made two brief pauses. Rose was anxious to find herself once more where there seemed some sort of place for her, and the nearer she drew to her destination, the more eager and anxious did she become. What if she should arrive to find Morna as near death as she had found George ? At last they reached the point where they must leave even the Highland railway behind, and proceed by carriage. Edgar Vivian had never been so far North, and he was not very familiar with the scenery of the peculiarly wild character in which he presently found himself. One mountain defile opened into another; mountains lay piled on every hand, quartz peaks gleaming in rivalry with snow-caps, while fantastic forms of ridge and rock suggested weird legends of toiling troll or enchanted Titan. Here and there nestled little nooks of softer beauty—dainty groups of birch or fir, growing on the banks of crystal streams, fed by leaping cataracts and spanned by picturesque bridges. For some time the horses had been toiling up-hill. Mrs. Tree had remained in the carriage, but Rose and Edgar had left it to walk up the steep hill, and were now some distance in front of it. Suddenly Edgar caught a silver gleam on the horizon. ‘‘Tt must be the loch at last,” he cried. ‘We shall see Ragan in a moment,” said Rose, softly, ““we have some time to drive yet. But stop! Surely this is Colin Vass coming to meet us!” Though Edgar had never seen the Highlandman before, he saw something in his face which told him that Colin had come to meet sorrow, bearing a sorrow of his own—a sorrow newly lifted, which CONNIE OOOlKS