Also I knew by heart certain little streams that rushed and made guiding sounds which were sometimes loud whispers and sometimes singing babbles.

The damp, sweet scent of fern and heather was in our nostrils; as we climbed we breathed its freshness.
"There is a sort of unearthly loveliness in it all," Hector MacNairn said to me.

His voice was rather like his mother's.

It always seemed to say so much more than his words.
"We might be ghosts," I answered.

"We might be some of those the mist hides because they like to be hidden." "You would not be afraid if you met one of them ?" he said.
"No.