ld.

"When the sun touches the top of West Law," said Jean, pointing to a
distant blue peak, "it has set. See--there.... Now run in, sonny, and
tell Mrs. M'Cosh to let you have some currant-loaf for tea. Pamela and I
are going to tea at Hopetoun."

"Aw," said Mhor, "I hate when you go out to tea. So does Jock. So does
Peter. Look out! I'm going to jump."

He jumped and fell prostrate, barking his chin, but no howl came from
him, and he picked himself up with dignity, merely asking for the loan
of a handkerchief, his own "useful little hanky," as he explained,
having been used to mop up a spilt ink-bottle.

Fortunately Jean had a spare handkerchief, and Pamela promised that on
her return he should have a reel of sticking-plaster for his own use,
so, battered but content, he returned to the house, Peter remaining
behind to investigate a mole-heap.

"What a cheery day for November," Pamela remarked as they took the road
by Tweedside. "Look at that beech tree against the blue sky, every black
twig silhouetted. Trees are wonderful in winter."

"Trees are wonderful always," said Jean. "'Solomon spake of trees'--I do
wonder what he said. I suppose it would be the cedars of Lebanon he
'spake' of, and the hyssop that grows in the walls, and sycamores, but
he would have been worth hearing on a rowan tree flaming red against a
blue September sky. Look at that newly ploughed field so softly brown,
and the faded gold of the beech hedge. November _is_ a cheery time. The
only depressing time of the year to me is when the swallows go away. I
can't bear to see them wheeling round and preparing to depart. I want so
badly to go with them. It always brings back to me the feeling I had as
a child when people read Hans Andersen to me--the storks in _The Marsh
King's Daughter_, talking about the mud in Egypt. Imagine Priorsford
swallows in Egypt!... As the song says:

"'It's dowie at the hint o' hair'st
At the way-gaun o' the swallow.'"

"What a lovely sound Lowland Scots has," said Pamela. "I like to hear
you speak it. Tell me about Mrs. Hope, Jean. I do hope we shall see her
alone. I don't like Priorsford tea-parties; they are rather like a
foretaste of eternal punishment. With no choice you are dumped down
beside the most irrelevant sort of person, and there you remain. I went
to return Mrs. Duff-Whalley's call the other day, and fell into one.
Before I could retreat I was wedged into a chair beside a woman whom I
hope I sh