"My name is Reid, the same as your landlord."

"Then," said Jean, "are you a relative of his?"

"A connection." It was not what he meant to say, but he said it.

"How odd!" said Jean. She was trying to remember if she had said
anything unbecoming of one relative to another. "Oh, here's Jock and
Mhor," as two figures ran past the windows; "you must stay and have tea
with us, Mr. Reid."

"But I ought to be getting back to the hotel. I had no intention of
inflicting myself on you in this way." He rose to his feet and looked
about for his hat. "The fact is--I must tell you--I am----"

The door burst open and Mhor appeared. He had forgotten to remove his
cap, or wipe his muddy boots, so eager was he to tell his news.

"Jean," he shouted, oblivious in his excitement of the presence of a
stranger--"Jean, there are six red puddock-stools at the bottom of the
garden--bright red puddock-stools." He noticed Mr. Reid and, going up to
him and looking earnestly into his face, he repeated, "Six!"

"Indeed," said Peter Reid.

He had no acquaintance with boys, and felt extremely ill at ease, but
Mhor, after studying him for a minute, was seized with a violent fancy
for this new friend.