So he gaed, and he gaed, over round swelling hills, over old
battle-fields, past the roofless ruins of houses whose walls were
crowned with tall climbing grasses, till he came to a crystal sheet of
water, called St. Mary's Loch. Here he paused to take breath. The sky
was dull and lowering; but at his feet were yellow flowers, which
shone, on that gray day, like freaks of sunshine.

He threw himself wearily upon the grass, not heeding that he had
chosen his couch within a little mossy circle known as a "fairy's
ring." Wild Robin knew that the country people would say the fays had
pressed that green circle with their light feet. He had heard all the
Scottish lore of brownies, elves, will-o'-the-wisps, and the strange
water-kelpies, who shriek with eldritch laughter. He had been told
that the queen of the fairies had coveted him from his birth, and
would have stolen him away, only that, just as she was about to seize
him from the cradle, he had _sneezed_; and from that instant the
fairy-spell was over, and she had no more control of him.

Yet, in spite of all these stories, the boy was not afraid; and if he
had been informed that any of the uncanny people were, even now,
haunting his footsteps, he would not have believed it.

"I see," said Wild Robin, "the sun is drawing his night-cap over his
eyes, and dropping asleep. I believe I'll e'en take a nap mysel', and
see what comes o' it."

In two minutes he had forgotten St. Mary's Loch, the hills, the moors,
the yellow flowers. He heard, or fancied he heard, his sister Janet
calling him home.