Now it is cold and blowy on the west-land moors, and
neither whaups nor dark-blue uniforms object to a little refreshment up
there. The mischief was that Gavin Balchrystie did not, like the guards
and engine-drivers, go on with the passing train. He was always on the
spot, and the path through Barbrax Wood to the Railway Inn was as well
trodden as that which led over the bog moss, where the whaups built,
to the great white viaduct of Loch Merrick, where his three miles of
parallel gleaming responsibility began.
When his wife was but newly dead, and his Janet just a smart elf-locked
lassie running to and from the school, Gavin got too much in the way of
"slippin' doon by." When Janet grew to be woman muckle, Gavin kept the
habit, and Janet hardly knew that it was not the use and wont of all
fathers to sidle down to a contiguous Railway Arms, and return some
hours later with uncertain step, and face pricked out with bright
pin-points of red--the sure mark of the confirmed drinker of whisky
neat.
They were long days in the cottage at the back of Barbrax Long Wood.
The little "but an' ben" was whitewashed till it dazzled the eyes as you
came over the brae to it and found it set against the solemn depths of
dark-green firwood.
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