"It's coming on to rain," he observed. "There should be a muckle
star there, and when you can't see it it means wet weather wi'
this wind."

"What star?" Dickson asked.

"The one wi' the Irish-lukkin' name. What's that they call it?
O'Brien?" And he pointed to where the constellation of the hunter
should have been declining on the western horizon.

There was a bend of the road behind them, and suddenly round it came
a dogcart driven rapidly. Dougal slipped like a weasel into a bush,
and presently Dickson stood revealed in the glare of a lamp.
The horse was pulled up sharply and the driver called out to him.
He saw that it was Dobson the innkeeper with Leon beside him.

"Who is it?" cried the voice. "Oh, you! I thought ye were off the day?"

Dickson rose nobly to the occasion.

"I thought myself I was. But I didn't think much of Auchenlochan,
and I took a fancy to come back and spend the last night of my
holiday with my Auntie. I'm off to Glasgow first thing the morn's morn."

"So!" said the voice. "Queer thing I never saw ye on the
Auchenlochan road, where ye can see three mile before ye."

"I left early and took it easy along the shore."

"Did ye so? Well, good-sight to ye."