now, Mr. Reid. See these cookies? I went for them myself to Davidson
the baker's, and they were so hot and new-baked that the bag burst and
they all fell out on the road."

"_Mhor_! You horrid little boy."

"They're none the worse, Jean. I dusted them all with me useful little
hanky, and the road wasn't so very dirty."

"All the same," said Jean, "I think we'll leave the cookies to you and
Jock. The other things are baked at home, Mr. Reid, and are quite safe.
Mhor, tell Jock tea's in, and wash your hands."

So Peter Reid found himself, like Balaam, remaining to bless. After all,
why should he turn these people out of their home? A few years (with
care) was all the length of days promised to him, and it mattered little
where he spent them. Indeed, so little profitable did leisure seem to
him that he cared little when the end came. Mhor and his delight over a
burn of his own, and a garden that grew red puddock-stools, had made up
his mind for him. He would never be the angel with the flaming sword who
turned Mhor out of paradise. He had not known that a boy could be such a
pleasant person. He had avoided children as he had avoided women, and
now he found himself seated, the centre of interest, at a family
tea-table, with Jean, anxiously making tea to his liking, while Mhor
(with a well-soaped, shining face, but a high-water mark of dirt where
the sponge had not reached) sat close beside him, and Jock, the big
schoolboy, shyly handed him scones: and Peter walked among the feet of
the company, waiting for what he could get.

Peter Reid quite shone through the meal. He remembered episodes of his