figure of Cousin Eugenie, who had sunk into the arm-chair and closed
her eyes; the slim girl, into whose face the weather had whipped a
glow like blossom; and the hostess, with her petticoats kilted and
an ancient mutch on her head.

Mrs. Morran looked once at Saskia, and then did a thing which she
had not done since her girlhood. She curtseyed.

"I'm proud to see ye here, Mem. Off wi' your things, and I'll
get ye dry claes, Losh, ye're fair soppin' And your shoon!
Ye maun change your feet....Dickson! Awa' up to the loft, and dinna
you stir till I give ye a cry. The leddies will change by the fire.
And You, Mem"--this to Cousin Eugenie--"the place for you's your bed.
I'll kinnle a fire ben the hoose in a jiffey. And syne ye'll
have breakfast--ye'll hae a cup o' tea wi' me now, for the kettle's
just on the boil. Awa' wi' ye. Dickson," and she stamped her foot.

Dickson departed, and in the loft washed his face, and smoked a pipe on
the edge of the bed, watching the mist eddying up the village street.
From below rose the sounds of hospitable bustle, and when after
some twenty minutes' vigil he descended, he found Saskia toasting
stockinged toes by the fire in the great arm-chair, and Mrs. Morran
setting the table.

"Auntie Phemie, hearken to me. We've taken on too big a job for
two men and six laddies, and help we've got to get, and that
this very morning. D'you mind the big white house away up near
the hills ayont the station and east of the Ayr road? It looked like
a gentleman's shooting lodge. I was thinking of trying there. Mercy!"