Chapter VIII: Part 8

And then again, he said to himself, as he sate at the little table and turned over those leaves that contained many a gay morning song and many a midnight musing--but all about Meenie, and the birds and flowers and hills and streams that knew her--soon she would be away from Inver-Mudal, and what would the place be like then? Perhaps when the young corn was springing she would take her departure; and what would the world be like when she had left? He could see her seated in the little carriage; her face not quite so bright and cheerful as usually it was; her eyes--that were sometimes as blue as a speedwell in June, and sometimes gray like the luminous clear gray of the morning sky--perhaps clouded a little; and the sensitive lips trembling? The children would be there, to bid her good-bye. And then away through the lonely glens she would go, by hill and river and wood, till they came in sight of the western ocean, and Loch Inver, and the great steamer to carry her to the south. Meenie would be away--and Inver-Mudal, _then_?

_Small birds in the corn_ _Are cowering and quailing:_ _O my lost love,_ _Whence are you sailing?_

_Fierce the gale blows_ _Adown the bleak river;_ _The valley is empty_ _For ever and ever._

_Out on the seas,_ _The night-winds are wailing:_ _O my lost love,_ _Whence are you sailing?_

END OF VOL. I.