in which things seem to take a
positive pleasure in going wrong. To start with, the kitchen range could
not go on, as something had happened to the boiler, and that had
shattered Mrs. M'Cosh's placid temper. Also the bill for mending it
would be large, and probably the landlord would make a fuss about paying
it. Then Mhor had put a newly-soled boot right on the hot bar of the
fire and burned it across, and Jock had thrown a ball and broken a
precious Spode dish that had been their mother's. But the worst thing of
all was that Peter was lost, had been lost for three days, and now they
felt they must give up hope. Jock and Mhor were in despair (which may
have accounted for their abandoned conduct in burning boots and breaking
old china), and in their hearts felt miserably guilty. Peter had wanted
to go with them that morning three days ago; he had stood patiently
waiting before the front door, and they had sneaked quietly out at the
back without him. It was really for his own good, Jock told Mhor; it was
because the gamekeeper had said if he got Peter in the Peel woods again
he would shoot him, and they had been going to the Peel woods that
morning--but nothing brought any comfort either to Jock or Mhor. For two
nights Mhor had sobbed himself to sleep openly, and Jock had lain awake
and cried when everyone else was sleeping.

They scoured the country in the daytime, helped by David and Mr. Jowett
and other interested friends, but all to no purpose.

"If I knew God had him I wouldn't mind," said Mhor, "but I keep seeing
him in a trap watching for us to come and let him out. Oh, Peter,
_Peter_...."

So Jean felt completely demoralised this January afternoon and sat in
her most unbecoming dress, with the fire drearily, if economically,
banked up with dross, hoping that no one would come near her. And Mrs.
Duff-Whalley and her daughter arrived to call.

It was at once evident that Mrs. Duff-Whalley was on a very high horse
indeed. Her accent was at its most superior--not at all the accent she
used on ordinary occasions--and her manner was an excellent imitation of
that of a lady she had met at one of the neighbouring houses and greatly
admired. Her sharp eyes were all over the place, taking in Jean's poor
little home-made frock, the shabby slippers, the dull fire, the
depressed droop of her hostess's shoulders.

Jean was sincerely sorry to see her visitors. To cope with Mrs.
Duff-Whalley and her daughter one had to be i