They were at some distance from home, and I found that Turkey had heard nothing of the mishap.

When I had succeeded in conveying the dreadful news, he shouldered his club, and said-- "The cows must look after themselves, Ranald!" With the words he set off at a good swinging trot in the direction of a little rocky knoll in a hollow about half a mile away, which he knew to be a favourite haunt of Wandering Willie, as often as he came into the neighbourhood.

On this knoll grew some stunted trees, gnarled and old, with very mossy stems.

There was moss on the stones too, and between them grew lovely harebells, and at the foot of the knoll there were always in the season tall foxgloves, which had imparted a certain fear to the spot in my fancy.

For there they call them _Dead Man's Bells_, and I thought there was a murdered man buried somewhere thereabout.