The lovely, sulky face went dark in a minute, like her son’s then despite all the differences. Where is he?—Oh, nothing new happened. But ever since that time in the jail. I want to take him out to the country—somewhere; and I want to know if you’ll mind.

Chris looked at her a minute and then laughed, saying they surely could go where they liked, they were neither of them bairns, Ellen nodded and jumped off the table. I know. But I don’t know if we’ll be back tonight.

And then she thought Ewan’s mother understood, her eyes changed and grew darker and glassed over with gold in that way that Ellen had seen before. She said quietly and kindly: I won’t worry. But, Ellen—

—Yes?

—It’s your life and his, but I think I ken Ewan. He’s like this for the time, but he won’t be long. And when he’s once better … he’s a funny lad. I don’t think he’ll ever be any lass’s lad.

For a second Ellen felt cold to her spine. True in a way—and she didn’t care! Chris liked the gay smile on the scared pussy-face: We’re only going hiking. Bye-bye, Mrs Colquohoun.

Plodding teams blue steam in the parks as the fat bus grunted up the Hill of Barras, Ellen beside Ewan looked up a moment, he’d just asked, in his soft Scotch voice and as though wakening up, what were a couple of rucksacks for?

She said For fun. I’ve brought some lunch.

Below them all the eastwards Howe lay spread, grey saffron and thinly wooded, cold-gleaming under the quick Spring sun—a bare and wild and uncanny land, she’d never be at home here she thought with a shiver, though she trilled her r’s and lived to be a hundred. Hideous country, ragged and cruel … but Ewan’s shoulder against hers sweet.

And Ewan looked out and saw the Howe and far away high in the air beyond the cold parks and the dark little bourochs of nestling trees under the lithe of the shining hills, the line of the mountains, crested in snow, unmelting, Trusta Peak over High Segget, the round-breasted hills like great naked women waking and rising, tremendous, Titanic. Watching, Ellen saw his face suddenly darken, she said Headache going? and he answered her hardly (poor Ewan!) Yes. I’m all right.

Down by the Pitforthies and by Meikle Fiddes into the main road winding broad, chockablock with traffic tearing south, loaded lorries and glistening cars, swaying shapes of the great Dundee-Aberdeen buses squattering the ancient tracks of the Howe. Cattle were out from the winter byres, flanks laired in sharn and eating like mad on the thin, lush pastures that couched from the wind under the shelter of the olive-green firs. With a chink and a gleam and a slow, canny stamping the ploughmen faced up against far braes, the dirl of little stones pattered the windscreen as the bus ran through a great skellop of tar, roadmenders resting and giving them a wave, every soul in a fairly fine tune today.