The woman seemed to relent. "Whaur's your freend?" she asked,
peering over her spectacles towards the garden gate. The waiting
Mr. Heritage, seeing he eyes moving in his direction, took off his
cap with a brave gesture and advanced. "Glorious weather, madam,"
he declared.

"English," whispered Dickson to the woman, in explanation.

She examined the Poet's neat clothes and Mr. McCunn's homely
garments, and apparently found them reassuring. "Come in," she said
shortly. "I see ye're wilfu' folk and I'll hae to dae my best for ye."

A quarter of an hour later the two travellers, having been
introduced to two spotless beds in the loft, and having washed
luxuriously at the pump in the back yard, were seated in Mrs.
Morran's kitchen before a meal which fulfilled their wildest dreams.
She had been baking that morning, so there were white scones and
barley scones, and oaten farles, and russet pancakes. There were
three boiled eggs for each of them; there was a segment of an
immense currant cake ("a present from my guid brither last Hogmanay");
there was skim milk cheese; there were several kinds of jam, and there
was a pot of dark-gold heather honey. "Try hinny and aitcake," said
their hostess. "My man used to say he never fund onything as guid in
a' his days."

Presently they heard her story. Her name was Morran, and she had
been a widow these ten years. Of her family her son was in South Africa,
one daughter a lady's-maid in London, and the other married to a
schoolmaster in Kyle. The son had been in France fighting, and had
come safely through. He had spent a month or two with her before