t chairs completed the furniture.

"This is the least nice room in the house," Jean told him, "but we are
never in it except to eat. It looks out on the road."

"Yes," said Peter Reid, remembering that that was why his mother had
liked it. She could sit with her knitting and watch the passers-by. She
had always "infused" the tea when she heard the click of the gate as he
came home from school.

"You will like to see the living-room," said Jean, shivering for the
effect its charm might have on a potential purchaser. She led him in,
hoping that it might be looking its worst, but, as if in sheer
contrariness, the fire was burning brightly, a shaft of sunlight lay
across a rug, making the colours glow like jewels, and the whole room
seemed to hold out welcoming hands. It was satisfactory (though somewhat
provoking) that the stranger seemed quite unimpressed.

"You have some good furniture," he said.

"Yes," Jean agreed eagerly. "It suits the room and makes it beautiful.
Can you imagine it furnished with a 'suite' and ordinary pictures, and
draped curtains at the windows and silver photograph frames and a grand
piano? It would simply be no sort of room at all. All its individuality
would be gone. But won't you sit down and rest? That hill up from the
town is steep."

Peter Reid sank thankfully into a corner of the sofa, while Jean busied
herself at the writing-table so that this visitor, who looked so tired,
need not feel that he should offer conversation.

Presently he said, "You are very fond of The Rigs?"

Jean came and sat down beside him.

"It's the only home we have ever known," she said. "We came here from
India to live with our great-aunt--first me alone, and then David and
Jock. And Father and Mother were with us when Father had leave. I have
hardly ever been away from The Rigs. It's such a very _affectionate_
sort of house--perhaps that is rather an absurd thing to say, but you do
get so fond of it. But if I take you in to see Mrs. M'Cosh in the
kitchen she will tell you plenty of faults. The water doesn't heat well,
for one thing, and the range simply eats up coal, and there is no proper
pantry. Your wife would want to know about these things."

"Haven't got a wife," said Peter Reid gruffly.

"No? Well, your housekeeper, then. You couldn't buy a house without
getting to know all about the hot water and pantries."

"There is no question of my buying it."

"Oh, isn't there?" cried Jean joyfully. "What