After that the life I loved went on quietly.  I studied with Angus, and made the book-walled library my own room.  I walked and rode on the moor, and I knew the people who lived in the cottages and farms on the estate.  I think they liked me, but I am not sure, because I was too shy to seem very friendly.  I was more at home with Feargus, the piper, and with some of the gardeners than I was with any one else.  I think I was lonely without knowing; but I was never unhappy.  Jean and Angus were my nearest and dearest.  Jean was of good blood and a stanch gentlewoman, quite sufficiently educated to be my companion as she had been my early governess.

It was Jean who told Angus that I was giving myself too entirely to the study of ancient books and the history of centuries gone by.

“She is living to-day, and she must not pass through this life without gathering anything from it.”

“This life,” she put it, as if I had passed through others before, and might pass through others again.  That was always her way of speaking, and she seemed quite unconscious of any unusualness in it.

“You are a wise woman, Jean,” Angus said, looking long at her grave face.  “A wise woman.”

He wrote to the London book-shops for the best modern books, and I began to read them.  I felt at first as if they plunged me into a world I did not understand, and many of them I could not endure.  But I persevered, and studied them as I had studied the old ones, and in time I began to feel as if perhaps they were true.  My chief weariness with them came from the way they had of referring to the things I was so intimate with as though they were only the unauthenticated history of a life so long passed by that it could no longer matter to any one.  So often the greatest hours of great lives were treated as possible legends.  I knew why men had died or were killed or had borne black horror.  I knew because I had read old books and manuscripts and had heard the stories which had come down through centuries by word of mouth, passed from father to son.

But there was one man who did not write as if he believed the world had begun and would end with him.  He knew he was only one, and part of all the rest.  The name I shall give him is Hector MacNairn.  He was a Scotchman, but he had lived in many a land.  The first time I read a book he had written I caught my breath with joy, again and again.  I knew I had found a friend, even though there was no likelihood that I should ever see his face.  He was a great and famous writer, and all the world honored him; while I, hidden away in my castle on a rock on the edge of Muircarrie, was so far from being interesting or clever that even in my grandest evening dress and tiara of jewels I was as insignificant as a mouse.  In fact, I always felt rather silly when I was obliged to wear my diamonds on state occasions as custom sometimes demanded.