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As she stamped her feet down on the unyielding granite pavement, it occurred to her that she would not know what further information, true or false, Neil might give to the reporter.

At Dalkeith’s she was welcomed as though she had been rescued from a storm-tossed raft in mid-Atlantic. Eager questions, friendly assurances that people had worried about her, cups of tea—these small attentions restored her to greater tranquillity.

Mr. Cameron suggested postponing examination of the fabric samples she had brought back with her.

“Tomorrow morning will be time enough,” he said.

“I’d rather do them now while everything is fresh in my mind, she insisted.

By absorption in work that interested her she could make an effort to forget Neil and the smarting sense of annoyance his attitude had caused her.

WHEN Judith saw the photographs of herself and Neil splashed across the front page of the local weekly newspaper, she crumpled up the paper and threw it into an armchair.

“Why did he choose this week to sell sheep?” she stormed furiously to Barbara, who watched her sister with interest. “Why did he have to be on the same boat?”

“I can’t think why you’re so upset. The caption is quite harmless. All it says is ‘Miss Judith Whitacre, the rising young fashion designer, with Mr. Neil Raeburn.’ Good publicity for you, and in a week’s time everyone will have forgotten who your companion was.”

“The caption may say very little,” retorted Judith, “but the report definitely makes it sound as though even on business trips we’re inseparable.”

“Never mind, darling,” Barbara said soothingly. “Here’s something' to cheer you up. Stuart’s invited us all to a
ceilidh
at the new inn. Some jollification because he has the roof on, although as far as I can see there isn’t any covering of tiles or slates. We’re all going to get wet if it rains.”

Judith walked abruptly out of the room. So now there would be further questions, probably tearful scenes with Mairi, sly innuendos from Neil and, most of all, the thought of facing Stuart. She would have to devise some excuse for not going to the inn party.

When the day came, however, she had no choice. On that Saturday morning, she told Barbara, “I may have to work late. Sorry to miss the party.”

“It doesn’t begin until seven, so you’ll be home before then. Besides, I was counting on you to help me with the food. We can’t let Stuart provide everything.”

Judith fished around in her mind for a further excuse, but her astute sister cut in first. “Which one are you afraid of? Neil? Or Stuart?”

“Neither.”

“That’s all right, then. For you can easily cope with Mairi and Fiona. By the way, I hear that Stuart’s mother and stepfather are expected home for Christmas and New Year and they may be coming to this affair.”

The two children were excited at the prospect of what seemed to them a midnight party held in a half-built inn, lit by hurricane lanterns and candles and smelling of concrete, timber and tar.

“I’m glad it’s at a dark time of year,” Robbie said to Judith. “It wouldn’t be half the fun in daylight.”

Susan raised her deep blue eyes. “Shall I be able to wear my new Christmas party dress you made me?” Judith frowned. “Oh, no, pet. Keep that for cleaner places. Down there we shall be sitting on packing-cases and tramping about in the mud. Wear your jeans and duffel coat.”

She and Barbara wisely wore sensible tweed skirts and woollen jumpers, in common with most of the islanders present, except Mairi, who came in a smart cherry-red wool dress.

Stuart brought a boat-load of guests in his recently-acquired ex-R.A.F. rescue launch, among them his mother, wearing a handsome naval type of boat-cloak in dark blue lined with red satin.

“Now we know what to wear when we dine out on the mainland,” Barbara whispered under cover of the numerous introductions. “Why didn’t
we
think of copying the 'Navy?”

Stuart introduced Judith to his mother and her American husband, Charles Copeland, a quiet, silver-haired man with a gentle, dignified manner, who thought the present
ceilidh
was a Scottish version of a barbecue.

As Stuart had described, his mother was small, dark and vivacious—the way Susan might be when she was grown up.

“So this is Judith.” The older woman gave her a faintly appraising smile, and Judith’s spirits rose to foolish heights, for now she imagined that Stuart must have mentioned her in his letters, perhaps.

“Judith works at Dalkeith’s,” Fiona put in, cutting Judith down to size in an instant.

“Oh, do you? I must come in and buy something. Such a pleasant atmosphere that shop has.”

Fiona moved away sulkily.

When all the hampers of food had been set out on trestle tables at one end of the bare building, Stuart banged the top of a case of whisky. He made a short speech of thanks to all those who had worked on the rebuilding, then gave instructions for glasses to be filled.

“Whisky galore for those who want it! Soft drinks or Mrs. Drummond’s parsnip wine for children and the rest.”

There was a crescendo of laughter, and somebody called, “It is a stronger head ye’ll be needing for Mrs. Drummond’s wine than for the whisky, I am thinking.”

To Judith’s astonishment, everybody, with glass in hand, then charged out of the wide opening where the doors would eventually be fixed, and stood in a jostling crowd staring up at the roof. Above the tarpaulin which temporarily covered the rafters a small fir tree was visible in the flickering light of lanterns and torches now shone on it.

“To the new ‘Bride of Klysaig,’ ” shouted Stuart, his glass raised high. Among the cheers and wild Gaelic yells, an irreverent voice whispered close beside Judith, “And good luck to all who sail in her!”

But she was not in the mood for Neil’s wisecracks. She watched Stuart take aim and fling his empty whisky glass up towards the fir tree. After a momentary hush, there was a rewarding tinkle of glass fragments, followed by applause, shouts of “Garranmure!” and much back-slapping for Stuart.

Everybody now trooped back to the interior of the inn, for the serious business of eating and drinking, laughing and talking, before the evening’s entertainment began.

“Practically the entire population of Kylsaig must be here tonight,” Judith said to Andy. “I can see the Frasers and McKinnons, the Erskines and MacLeods, but there are others whose names I don’t know.”

“Oh, they’ll be the men from the lobster-packing station that Stuart’s re-starting for next season.”

Two men had brought their fiddles, another his flute, and Willie MacIntyre droned and wailed his bagpipes. Mr. Fraser, the ferryman, possessed a fine baritone voice and sang Scottish airs in which the company joined in the choruses, and Mr. McKinnon, who usually looked as solemn as a crow, turned out to be a comedian with a stock of lively anecdotes.

Alison MacLeod, Neil’s housekeeper, performed a nimble solo dance and everybody joined in reels and strathspeys.

The new flooring of bare boards stood up well to the dancers’ leaping and stampings, as Judith remarked breathlessly to Stuart when she was briefly his partner in a reel.

“Oh, it will have more than this to put up with,” he told her. “The cellars are underneath, so they need a strong roof.” After another round of exchanging partners, he said, “Are you making a habit of being marooned? I hear you were on the Tobermory ship that ran aground in the fog.”

“Perhaps I have a hoodoo on boats and ships,” she returned lightly, although the next moment she saw by his expression that she had said the wrong thing.

“Some women are unlucky to sailors—as this old inn knew well. Neil Raeburn doesn’t care much for boats, so you should be all right.”

They were separated in the dance before she could reply and his next partner, Mairi, gave him a dazzling smile.

As soon as they met again, Judith said, “You shouldn’t try to read into a newspaper account facts that are not really there. Neil and I didn’t arrange our Tobermory trip to coincide. He didn’t know I was going there for Dalkeith’s.”

“He certainly did know!” Stuart replied emphatically.

“I didn’t tell him, so who did?”

“As the information was useful to him, probably there were several who could have done that.” Stuart’s tone was so cold and out of keeping with the general gaiety of the party that Judith shivered.

if only she and Stuart could have sat in a quiet corner, she could have explained how little Neil meant to her, even to the point of trying to catch an earlier steamer to avoid him.

Suddenly somebody cried out, “Northern lights!”

The musicians stopped in mid-bar and dashed outside with everyone else.

Judith gasped at the magnificent sky spectacle. Wide rays of greenish-yellow light radiated from the northern horizon, carving the mountains sharply against an unbelievable brilliance. Long fingers quivered and overlapped, changing colour and shape.

Those who had seen the Aurora in Scotland on previous occasions said that the red glow would probably last for hours. Gradually, Stuart’s guests drifted back to the inn, but Judith could hardly bear to tear herself away from the sight, believing that perhaps never again in her life would she chance to be far enough north to see the Aurora display.

Reluctantly, she turned towards the inn, where dancing had already started again. A few yards away, outlined against the whiteness of the slipway, was a girl in a red dress. She was crying against Stuart’s shoulder, as he held her and gently dried her tears. Even as Judith watched for those few seconds, he bent and kissed Mairi’s forehead.

Conscious of spying, Judith turned away quickly and almost ran towards the inn, but not before Neil said triumphantly, “So at last Mairi’s taking her revenge on you. I see now who’s to be the real ‘Bride of Klysaig.’ ”

Judith brushed past him without replying. The most searing jealousy shook her entire frame, so that she would not have been able to command coherent speech. A physical feeling of sickness made her recoil from any more merrymaking, and she made excuses that Susan and Robbie ought to be in bed by now and she would take them home.

The awe-inspiring rose glow still covered the sky as she and the children walked the short distance home. For a long time she would remember the sight of the Northern Lights, but never without pain. This was the moment of truth.

Everything was quite lucid now. Stuart had been patiently waiting for Mairi to overcome her infatuation for Neil. Now that Neil had so plainly shown, perhaps even told, Mairi that he did not want to marry her, she had sensibly turned towards Stuart, as her mother so ardently desired.

Judith attending to the small tasks of settling the children in bed, asked herself derisively: Who else but Mairi could be Stuart’s “Bride of Kylsaig”?

Perhaps even now the engagement was being announced at the
ceilidh.
No doubt Stuart had planned the party for that purpose, making sure that his mother was present to give Mairi her blessing.

Only the fact that Judith shared Susan’s bedroom prevented her from yielding to the longed-for luxury of crying her heart out into the pillows. She knew the agony of an unfulfilled dream, the realisation that the heart can weep while the eyes are dry of tears.

The next two or three weeks were fortunately busy ones for Judith, and if she could take little pleasure in Christmas or New Year festivities and parties, she could at least occupy herself with preparations, for which Barbara was grateful.

There had been no announcement of Stuart’s engagement, so perhaps he was waiting for Mairi to return from Edinburgh, where she and her mother were spending part of the holiday with Mrs. Drummond’s married daughter.

Stuart might also be waiting until the end of Fiona’s holiday. Judith wondered if Fiona knew Stuart’s intentions and what her reactions were.

On New Year’s Eve, most of the Klysaig islanders spent the hours after midnight first-footing each other. Neil was the first visitor to Andy’s croft. He gave Barbara his small nugget of coal and piece of bread, kissed her, then turned towards Judith.

“Happy New Year!” he greeted her, but she jerked her face away so that his kiss brushed her cheek instead of her lips.

In the middle of January, a big party was held at Garranmure, but Judith declined, pleading that she was extra busy with a fashion parade at Dalkeith’s.

Andy went to London for a few days at the end of the month, and Judith fancied that her sister adopted a curiously expectant attitude. When Andy returned, Judith knew the reason.

Barbara said, “I’m meeting Andy off the midday train from Glasgow. Can you lunch with us at the Station Hotel?”

When Judith arrived, Barbara radiated happiness. The weariness and drooping discontent had vanished.

“What’s the joyful news? You look as though you’ve won a fortune.” Judith sank down into the armchair opposite.

“Tell her, Andy,” smiled Barbara.

“I’ve taken a new job in London.”

“Oh, no!” Judith started forward so violently that her sherry spilled on the table. “You can’t leave now.” She turned furiously towards Barbara. “This is your doing. This is what you wanted!”

Barbara’s calm smile was' maddening. “I’ve made no secret of it. Andy knows that.”

“And I suppose you’ve sold out to Graham,” Judith continued in a furious undertone.

Andy smiled. “No. To Stuart. At least, it isn’t all settled but Stuart knows I’d rather sell to him than to Mundon.”

Judith breathed with relief. “That’s something, anyway. Perhaps we shan’t have fun-fairs there or hideous hotels.”

“You might congratulate Andy on his new job, or at least ask him what it is,” Barbara reproached her.

“Sorry, Andy. It was such a bombshell. Well, good luck, if you must leave Kylsaig. What’s the job?”

“Sales manager of one of the largest firms in the country for engineering accessories. Back to the old grind, you see,” he added, smiling. “But farther up the ladder this time.”

“Andy would never have been able to go straight from his old firm to this one,” put in Barbara. “They have some kind of agreement not to poach each other’s men, but now that he’s been up here for a year or two, he’s free to go anywhere.”