carefully and properly hidden away; that was my first impression of Miss
Jean Rendall.

And then I turned in, and slept that night without a dream.

Sunday was another gorgeous day. The breeze had almost quite died away,
the sea glimmered through a heat haze, and the colours of the wild
flowers were brighter than any palette. I came down shaved, but found
Miss Rendall still cool, and her father as inaccessible as ever.

"Anyhow," I consoled myself by reflecting, "I have eliminated my
bristles as a cause for my unpopularity. They have something else on
their minds!"

The laird lent me a felt hat and as the hour of noon drew nigh we set
off for the parish kirk. There was another church in the island (as in
every self-respecting Scottish parish, I believe), but by the greatest
good luck the rival minister was away and the congregations were
assembled together. I gathered afterwards that this happy result was
partly due to the hope of seeing the laird's mysterious guest, and that
several very prickly theological scruples were swallowed by divers of
the other congregation. At all events the church was crowded and I had
the chance I wanted.

As we approached the kirk I thought I had never seen a plainer, more
primitive little building even in a Scottish kirkyard; no spire, no
ornament, nothing but grey roughcast walls (what they call in
Scotland "harled") and a roof of small yellowish flagstones, set in
a bed of mingled nettles and tombstones. Amid the tombstones stood
the congregation, all in black and staring steadfastly at the