not tell why. It was all perfectly absurd, for why on earth should
an ugly house, some overgrown trees, and a couple of ill-favoured
servants so malignly affect him? Yet this was the fact; he had
strayed out of Arcady into a sphere that filled him with revolt and
a nameless fear. Never in his experience had he felt like this,
this foolish childish panic which took all the colour and zest
out of life. He tried to laugh at himself but failed. Heritage,
stumbling along by his side, effectually crushed his effort to
discover humour in the situation. Some exhalation from that
infernal place had driven the Poet mad. And then that voice singing!
A seagull, he had said. More like a nightingale, he reflected--a bird
which in the flesh he had never met.

Mrs. Morran had the lamp lit and a fire burning in her cheerful
kitchen. The sight of it somewhat restored Dickson's equanimity,
and to his surprise he found that he had an appetite for supper.
There was new milk, thick with cream, and most of the dainties
which had appeared at tea, supplemented by a noble dish of
shimmering "potted-head." The hostess did not share their meal,
being engaged in some duties in the little cubby-hole known as
the back kitchen.

Heritage drank a glass of milk but would not touch food.

"I called this place Paradise four hours ago," he said. "So it is,
but I fancy it is next door to Hell. There is something devilish
going on inside that park wall, and I mean to get to the bottom of it."

"Hoots! Nonsense!" Dickson replied with affected cheerfulness.
"To-morrow you and me will take the road for Auchenlochan.