"Is there nowhere else we can put up?" Dickson asked.

"Not in this one-horse place. Just a wheen auld wives that packed
thegether they haven't room for an extra hen. But it's grand
weather, and it's not above seven miles to Auchenlochan. Say the
word and I'll yoke the horse and drive ye there."

"Thank you. We prefer to walk," said Mr. Heritage. Dickson would
have tarried to inquire after the illness in the house, but his
companion hurried him off. Once he looked back, and saw the
landlord still on the doorstep gazing after them.

"That fellow's a swine," said Mr. Heritage sourly. "I wouldn't
trust my neck in his pot-house. Now, Dogson, I'm hanged if I'm
going to leave this place. We'll find a corner in the village somehow.
Besides, I'm determined on tea."

The little street slept in the clear pure light of an early
April evening. Blue shadows lay on the white road, and a delicate
aroma of cooking tantalized hungry nostrils. The near meadows shone
like pale gold against the dark lift of the moor. A light wind had
begun to blow from the west and carried the faintest tang of salt.
The village at that hour was pure Paradise, and Dickson was of the
Poet's opinion. At all costs they must spend the night there.

They selected a cottage whiter and neater than the others, which stood
at a corner, where a narrow lane turned southward. Its thatched roof
had been lately repaired, and starched curtains of a dazzling whiteness
decorated the small, closely-shut windows. Likewise it had a green