Page:Through South Westland.djvu/290

180 the light was failing when we said good-bye, and rode down to the river.

One picture more of that day dwells in my mind: the tiny cottage with the group at the door, cows and calves straying about, Duncan Macpherson’s dogs standing sentinel on the rise before the house—all framed by the lonely mountains, purple-black in the gloaming, and the crescent moon hanging in the opening of the gorge.