The walking was besides made most extraordinary difficult by a
plain black frost that fell suddenly in the small hours and turned
that highway into one long slide.
"Well, Catriona," said I, "here we are like the king's sons and the
old wives' daughters in your daft-like Highland tales. Soon we'll
be going over the 'SEVEN BENS, THE SEVEN GLENS AND THE SEVEN
MOUNTAIN MOORS'." Which was a common byword or overcome in those
tales of hers that had stuck in my memory.
"Ah," says she, "but here are no glens or mountains! Though I will
never be denying but what the trees and some of the plain places
hereabouts are very pretty. But our country is the best yet."
"I wish we could say as much for our own folk," says I, recalling
Sprott and Sang, and perhaps James More himself.
"I will never complain of the country of my friend," said she, and
spoke it out with an accent so particular that I seemed to see the
look upon her face.
I caught in my breath sharp and came near falling (for my pains) on
the black ice.
"I do not know what YOU think, Catriona," said I, when I was a
little recovered, "but this has been the best day yet! I think
shame to say it, when you have met in with such misfortunes and
disfavours; but for me, it has been the best day yet.
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