Annie o' the Banks o' Dee

To Matty’s surprise the two great dogs made friends with each other at once, and every day during that long voyage homewards they romped and played together, with merry Matty as their constant companion, and never quarrelled even once.

British shores and the snow-white steeples and spires of bonnie Aberdeen at last! The first thing that Reginald did was to hire a carriage, and, accompanied by Annie and the honest dog Oscar, drive straight to McLeod’s cottage.

To their surprise and alarm they found the house empty and the windows boarded up.

“Oh, Annie!” cried Reginald. “I fear the worst. Your poor uncle has gone.”

Annie had already placed her handkerchief to her eyes.

“Beg pardon,” said the jarvey, “but is it Laird McLeod you’re a-talking about? Oh, yes; he’s gone this six months! Man! I knew the old man well. Used to drive him most every day of his life. But haven’t you heard, sir?”

“No, my good fellow; we have not been on shore two hours. Tell us.”

“There isn’t much to tell, sir, though it was sad enough. For the young Laird o’ Bilberry Hall shot himself one morning by accident while out after birds. Well, of course, that dear soul, the old Laird, is gone back to his estate, and such rejoicings as there was you never did see.”

“And he is not dead, then?”

“Dead! He is just as lively as a five-year-old!”

This was indeed good news. They were driven back to the ship, and that same afternoon, accompanied by Matty, after telegraphing for the carriage to meet them, they started by train up Deeside.

Yes, the carriage was there, and not only the Laird, but Mr Hall as well.

I leave anyone who reads these lines to imagine what that happy reunion was like, and how pleasantly spent was that first evening, with so much to say, so much to tell.

But a house was built for Mr Hall on the estate, and beautiful gardens surrounded it, and here he meant to settle down.

Jeannie was married in due course, but she and McGregor took a small farm near to Bilberry Hall, and on the estate, while Reginald and his wife lived in the mansion itself.

Many years have passed away since the events I have related in this “ower-true” tale. Matty is a tall girl now, and her uncle’s constant companion. Reginald and Annie are lovers still – “happy, though married.” The heather still blooms bonnie on the hills; dark wave the pine trees in the forests around; the purring of the dove is heard mournfully sounding from the thickets of spruce, and the wildflowers grow on every bank and brae; but – the auld Laird has worn away. His home is under the long green grass and the daisies; yet even when the snow-clads that grave in a white cocoon, Annie never forgets to visit it, and rich and rare are the flowers that lie at its head.

And so my story ends, so drops the curtain down.

The End