Once beyond the houses, there was neither moon or stars to guide us; only the whiteness of the way in the midst and a blackness of an alley on both hands.

The walking was besides made most extraordinary difficult by a plain black frost that fell suddenly in the small hours and turned that highway into one long slide.
"Well, Catriona," said I, "here we are like the king's sons and the old wives' daughters in your daft-like Highland tales.

Soon we'll be going over the '_seven Bens, the seven glens, and the seven mountain moors_.'" Which was a common byword or overcome in these tales of hers that had stuck in my memory.
"Ah," says she, "but here are no glens or mountains! Though I will never be denying but what the trees and some of the plain places hereabouts are very pretty.

But our country is the best yet." "I wish we could say as much for our own folk," says I, recalling Sprott and Sang, and perhaps James More himself.
"I will never complain of the country of my friend," said she, and spoke it out with an accent so particular that I seemed to see the look upon her face.
I caught in my breath sharp and came near falling (for my pains) on the black ice.
"I do not know what _you_ think, Catriona," said I, when I was a little recovered, "but this has been the best day yet! I think shame to say it, when you have met in with such misfortunes and disfavours; but for me, it has been the best day yet." "It was a good day when you showed me so much love," said she.
"And yet I think shame to be happy too," I went on, "and you here on the road in the black night." "Where in the great world would I be else ?" she cried.

"I am thinking I am safest where I am with you." "I am quite forgiven, then ?" I asked.
"Will you not forgive me that time so much as not to take it in your mouth again ?" she cried.