What do you think?
Rate this book


173 pages, Kindle Edition
First published January 1, 1933
Underfoot the frost held hard and firm in the rising sun of the New Year's Day, that sun a red smoulder down in the Howe, the hoar was a blanching on post and hedge, rimming the dykes, far up in the Mounth the veilings of mist were draping the hills, except that now and then they blew off and you saw the coarse country deep in the haughs, remote with a flicker of red on the roofs of some shepherd's sheiling high in the heath.
In a ten years time what thing might have been? She might stand on this hill, she might rot in a grave, it would matter nothing, the world would go on, young Ewan dead as his father was dead, or hither and borne, far from Kinraddie; oh, once she had seen in these parks, she remembered, the truth, and the only truth that there was, that only the sky and the seasons endured, slow in their change, the cry of the rain, the whistle of the whins on a winter night under the sailing edge of the moon-
And suddenly, daft-like, she found herself weep, quiet, she thought that she made no noise, but Robert knew, and his arm came around her.
It was Ewan? Oh, Chris, he won't grudge you me!
Ewan? It was Time himself she had seen, haunting their tracks with unstaying feet.
But the spring was coming.