was the best road to the Mains, and by it Dickson and the others
might be returning. Her equanimity at all seasons was like a Turk's,
and she would not have admitted that anything mortal had power to
upset or excite her: nevertheless it was a fast-beating heart
that she now bore beneath her Sunday jacket. Great events,
she felt, were on the eve of happening, and of them she was a part.
Dickson's anxiety was hers, to bring things to a business-like conclusion.
The honour of Huntingtower was at stake and of the old Kennedys.
She was carrying out Mr. Quentin's commands, the dead boy who used
to clamour for her treacle scones. And there was more than duty in it,
for youth was not dead in her old heart, and adventure had still
power to quicken it.

Mrs. Morran walked well, with the steady long paces of the
Scots countrywoman. She left the Auchenlochan road and took
the side path along the tableland to the Mains. But for the
surge of the gale and the far-borne boom of the furious sea there
was little noise; not a bird cried in the uneasy air. With the wind
behind her Mrs. Morran breasted the ascent till she had on her
right the moorland running south to the Lochan valley and on
her left Garple chafing in its deep forested gorges. Her eyes
were quick and she noted with interest a weasel creeping from a
fern-clad cairn. A little way on she passed an old ewe in
difficulties and assisted it to rise. "But for me, my wumman,
ye'd hae been braxy ere nicht," she told it as it departed bleating.
Then she realized that she had come a certain distance. "Losh, I maun
be gettin' back or the hen will be spiled," she cried, and was on
the verge of turning.

But something caught her eye a hundred yards farther on the road.