"the dangerous bit for me is just the mile out of the village.
They'll no' be so likely to try violence if there's somebody with me
that could be a witness. Besides, they'll maybe suspect less if they
just see a decent body out for a breath of air with his auntie."

Mrs. Morran said nothing, but retired, and returned presently
equipped for the road. She had indued her feet with goloshes and
pinned up her skirts till they looked like some demented Paris mode.
An ancient bonnet was tied under her chin with strings, and her
equipment was completed by an exceedingly smart tortoise-shell-
handled umbrella, which, she explained, had been a Christmas
present from her son.

"I'll convoy ye as far as the Laverfoot herd's," she announced.
"The wife's a freend o' mine and will set me a bit on the road back.
Ye needna fash for me. I'm used to a' weathers."

The rain had declined to a fine drizzle, but a tearing wind from
the south-west scoured the land. Beyond the shelter of the trees
the moor was a battle-ground of gusts which swept the puddles into
spindrift and gave to the stagnant bog-pools the appearance of
running water. The wind was behind the travellers, and Mrs. Morran,
like a full-rigged ship, was hustled before it, so that Dickson,
who had linked arms with her, was sometimes compelled to trot.

"However will you get home, mistress?" he murmured anxiously.

"Fine. The wind will fa' at the darkenin'. This'll be a sair time
for ships at sea."