smoke piercing the windless air, and studied the daffodils in the
cottage gardens. Dickson was glum, but Heritage seemed in high spirits.
He varied his garrulity with spells of cheerful whistling.

They strode along the road by the park wall till they reached the inn.
There Heritage's music waxed peculiarly loud. Presently from the yard,
unshaven and looking as if he had slept in this clothes, came Dobson
the innkeeper.

"Good morning," said the poet. "I hope the sickness in your house
is on the mend?"

"Thank ye, it's no worse," was the reply, but in the man's heavy
face there was little civility. His small grey eyes searched
their faces.

"We're just waiting for breakfast to get on the road again.
I'm jolly glad we spent the night here. We found quarters
after all, you know."

"So I see. Whereabouts, may I ask?"

"Mrs. Morran's. We could always have got in there, but we didn't
want to fuss an old lady, so we thought we'd try the inn first.
She's my friend's aunt."

At this amazing falsehood Dickson started, and the man observed
his surprise. The eyes were turned on him like a searchlight.
They roused antagonism in his peaceful soul, and with that
antagonism came an impulse to back up the Poet. "Ay," he said,