clear pure light of an early April
evening. Blue shadows lay on the white road, and a delicate aroma of
cooking tantalized hungry nostrils. The near meadows shone like pale
gold against the dark lift of the moor. A light wind had begun to blow
from the west and carried the faintest tang of salt. The village at
that hour was pure Paradise, and Dickson was of the Poet's opinion. At
all costs they must spend the night there.

They selected a cottage whiter and neater than the others, which stood
at a corner, where a narrow lane turned southward. Its thatched roof
had been lately repaired, and starched curtains of a dazzling whiteness
decorated the small, closely-shut windows. Likewise it had a green
door and a polished brass knocker.

Tacitly the duty of envoy was entrusted to Mr. McCunn. Leaving the
other at the gate, he advanced up the little path lined with quartz
stones, and politely but firmly dropped the brass knocker. He must
have been observed, for ere the noise had ceased the door opened, and
an elderly woman stood before him. She had a sharply-cut face, the
rudiments of a beard, big spectacles on her nose, and an old-fashioned
lace cap on her smooth white hair. A little grim she looked at first
sight, because of her thin lips and roman nose, but her mild curious
eyes corrected the impression and gave the envoy confidence.

"Good afternoon, mistress," he said, broadening his voice to something
more rustical than his normal Glasgow speech. "Me and my friend are
paying our first visit here, and we're terrible taken up with the
place. We would like to bide the night, but the inn is no' taking
folk. Is there any chance, think you, of a bed here?"

"I'll no tell ye a lee," said the woman. "There's twae guid beds in
the loft. But I dinna tak' lodgers and I dinna want to be bothered wi'
ye. I'm an auld wumman and no' as stoot as I was. Ye'd better try
doun the street. Eppie Home micht tak' ye."

Dickson wore his most ingratiating smile. "But, mistress, Eppie Home's
house is no' yours. We've taken a tremendous fancy to this bit. Can
you no' manage to put up with us for the one night? We're quiet
auld-fashioned folk and we'll no' trouble you much. Just our tea and
maybe an egg to it, and a bowl of porridge in the morning."

The woman seemed to relent. "Whaur's your freend?" she asked, peering
over her spectacles towards the garden gate. The waiting Mr. Heritage,
seeing he eyes moving in his di