telling the man at the inn that you're my Auntie Phemie."

For a second their hostess looked bewildered. Then the corners of
her prim mouth moved upwards in a slow smile.

"I see," she said. "Weel, maybe it was weel done. But if ye're my
nevoy ye'll hae to keep up my credit, for we're a bauld and siccar lot."

Half an hour later there was a furious dissension when Dickson
attempted to pay for the night's entertainment. Mrs. Morran would
have none of it. "Ye're no' awa' yet," she said tartly, and
the matter was complicated by Heritage's refusal to take part
in the debate. He stood aside and grinned, till Dickson in despair
returned his notecase to his pocket, murmuring darkly the "he would
send it from Glasgow."

The road to Auchenlochan left the main village street at right
angles by the side of Mrs. Morran's cottage. It was a better road
than that by which they had come yesterday, for by it twice daily
the postcart travelled to the post-town. It ran on the edge of the
moor and on the lip of the Garple glen, till it crossed that stream
and, keeping near the coast, emerged after five miles into the
cultivated flats of the Lochan valley. The morning was fine,
the keen air invited to high spirits, plovers piped entrancingly
over the bent and linnets sang in the whins, there was a solid
breakfast behind him, and the promise of a cheerful road till luncheon.
The stage was set for good humour, but Dickson's heart, which should
have been ascending with the larks, stuck leadenly in his boots.
He was not even relieved at putting Dalquharter behind him.
The atmosphere of that unhallowed place lay still on his soul.