build, who was also smoking. Both were listening to Maggie Jean, who,
seated near her father, was reading in a monotonous voice the choice
extracts from a three-days-old local paper. Now and again, as the snow
beat more forcibly upon the window, or the wind moaned round the corner
of the house, or drove the peat reek in gusts into the room, she would
pause and glance anxiously through the uncurtained window near the
door. For Peter had gone down to the croft to bring back a bag of
turnips for her "coo" during this unforeseen spell of fierce weather.
The storm had come on suddenly, and provender was low; so Peter had
volunteered his services in his characteristically shy way (which a
southron, perhaps, would have taken for an indication of surliness),
and his sister, in equally characteristic Scottish fashion, had
accepted the offer with the air of one who had a right to it. Yet all
the while (I am sure, for I know the type well!) Peter was full of
tender compassion for the poor beast, and Maggie Jean's heart
overflowed with solicitude for her brother's safe return.

"Eh! But it's a fearfu' nicht, and nae mistak'!" old Davie would
exclaim, as the storm made itself felt more than usual.

"Aye, aye, it is thot," was Jock's imperturbable reply.

And Maggie Jean, with an anxious sigh, would resume her slow chant,
punctuated by occasional glances outside.

But a dash at the door from without, and Don's joyful barking, told of
the return of the dog and his master. Snow-clad Peter, with his
lantern, looking like some rustic Santa Claus--all white from head to
foot--made his appearance, and with much stamping and shaking off of
the snow from his garments, divested himself of his wraps, and joined