Through the village, in a cloud of dust,
we swept, catching a glimpse of a well-known face here and there, and
flinging a salutation as we passed, leaving the owner of the face rooted
to his place in astonishment at the sight of Graeme whirling on in his
old-time, well-known reckless manner. Only old Dunc. M'Leod was equal to
the moment, for as Graeme called out, 'Hello, Dunc.!' the old man lifted
up his hands, and called back in an awed voice: 'Bless my soul! is it
yourself?'
'Stands his whisky well, poor old chap!' was Graeme's comment.
As we neared the church he pulled up his team, and we went quietly past
the sleepers there, then again on the full run down the gentle slope,
over the little brook, and up to the gate. He had hardly got his team
pulled up before, flinging me the lines, he was out over the wheel, for
coming down the walk, with her hands lifted high, was a dainty little
lady, with the face of an angel. In a moment Graeme had her in his arms.
I heard the faint cry, 'My boy, my boy,' and got down on the other side
to attend to my off horse, surprised to find my hands trembling and my
eyes full of tears.
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