the part to play.

'It's a warm day, mistress,' I said, my voice falling into the broad
Lowland speech, for I had an instinct that she was not of the Highlands.

She laid aside her paper. 'It is that, sir. It is grand weather for the
hairst, but here that's no till the hinner end o' September, and at
the best it's a bit scart o' aits.'

'Ay. It's a different thing down Annandale way,' I said.

Her face lit up. 'Are ye from Dumfries, sir?'

'Not just from Dumfries, but I know the Borders fine.'

'Ye'll no beat them,' she cried. 'Not that this is no a guid place
and I've muckle to be thankfu' for since John Sanderson - that was
ma man - brought me here forty-seeven year syne come Martinmas.
But the aulder I get the mair I think o' the bit whaur I was born. It
was twae miles from Wamphray on the Lockerbie road, but they
tell me the place is noo just a rickle o' stanes.'
'I was wondering, mistress, if I could get a cup of tea in
the village.'

'Ye'll hae a cup wi' me,' she said. 'It's no often we see onybody
frae the Borders hereaways. The kettle's just on the boil.'

She gave me tea and scones and butter, and black-currant jam, and
treacle biscuits that melted in the mouth. And as we ate we talked of
many things - chiefly of the war and of the wickedness of the world.