rection, took off his cap with a brave
gesture and advanced. "Glorious weather, madam," he declared.

"English," whispered Dickson to the woman, in explanation.

She examined the Poet's neat clothes and Mr. McCunn's homely garments,
and apparently found them reassuring. "Come in," she said shortly. "I
see ye're wilfu' folk and I'll hae to dae my best for ye."

A quarter of an hour later the two travellers, having been introduced
to two spotless beds in the loft, and having washed luxuriously at the
pump in the back yard, were seated in Mrs. Morran's kitchen before a
meal which fulfilled their wildest dreams. She had been baking that
morning, so there were white scones and barley scones, and oaten
farles, and russet pancakes. There were three boiled eggs for each of
them; there was a segment of an immense currant cake ("a present from
my guid brither last Hogmanay"); there was skim milk cheese; there were
several kinds of jam, and there was a pot of dark-gold heather honey.
"Try hinny and aitcake," said their hostess. "My man used to say he
never fund onything as guid in a' his days."

Presently they heard her story. Her name was Morran, and she had been
a widow these ten years. Of her family her son was in South Africa,
one daughter a lady's-maid in London, and the other married to a
schoolmaster in Kyle. The son had been in France fighting, and had
come safely through. He had spent a month or two with her before his
return, and, she feared, had found it dull. "There's no' a man body in
the place. Naething but auld wives."

That was what the innkeeper had told them. Mr. McCunn inquired
concerning the inn.

"There's new folk just came. What's this they ca'
them?--Robson--Dobson--aye, Dobson. What far wad they no' tak' ye in?
Does the man think he's a laird to refuse folk that gait?"

"He said he had illness in the house."

Mrs. Morran meditated. "Whae in the world can be lyin' there? The man
bides his lane. He got a lassie frae Auchenlochan to cook, but she and
her box gaed off in the post-cairt yestreen. I doot he tell't ye a
lee, though it's no for me to juidge him. I've never spoken a word to
ane o' thae new folk."

Dickson inquired about the "new folk."

"They're a' now come in the last three weeks, and there's no' a man o'
the auld stock left. John Blackstocks at the Wast Lodge dee'd o'
pneumony last back-end, and auld Simon Tappie at the Gairdens flitted
to Maybole a year come Mairtin