He sat on one of the ladder-back chairs at the table. He watched her take oatmeal from a metal bin, watched her add water to the pot, carry the pot to the range. Then he watched her back, her narrow waist, the flatness of the upper back, the movements of her shoulder blades as she stirred the porridge. Her hair was lifted off her neck and held in place by a painted comb.

He became aware that she was speaking to him, though the only word he heard from her was “dream.” He said it back to her.

“We talk of our dreams,” she said, turning to look at him over her shoulder. “Thorpe always insists on it. I dreamed of you. You were dead and then somehow you were alive again.”

“I did not dream,” he said, though even as he spoke he remembered a dream of a frankly amorous character involving . . . who? The squint-eyed girl from the drinking house in Glasgow? Something to do with the way she had tucked his money under her apron . . .

When the porridge was ready, she carried over two bowls, set one down in front of him, kept the other for herself. “Jane and Cornelius sleep in,” she said. “Jane needs to and Cornelius chooses to.”

“Who is Thorpe?” he asked.

“Thorpe,” she said, blowing on a spoonful of porridge, “is a man and no more.”

He ate some of his own porridge. Perhaps he didn’t care who Thorpe was.

“There is a community,” she said. “We are a part of it. The vanguard. Thorpe and the others are on their way to join us. We believe they are. We had intended to go to America but there wasn’t enough money so we have come here. Thorpe thinks it is better than America and perhaps it is. Are you staring at me?”

“I am watching your mouth,” he said.

“Why?”

“It helps me to understand you.”

She paused then nodded. “This is our second summer here. The winter was difficult. Cornelius had a cold from December until March.”

“I suppose the community has rules?”

“We do not eat meat,” she said. “We do not attend church or chapel. We try to love people, though Cornelius and Jane do that better than I.”

“How is that?” asked Lacroix.

“They know less about people,” she said.

He finished his porridge. He was deeply grateful for it and looked hopefully towards the pot on its tile beside the fire.

“Your bag,” she said, “and your fiddle. They are in the hall here. Ranald brought them.”

“It was kind of him,” said Lacroix.

“He says you were a soldier.”

“I do not remember telling him so. I am not sure that I did.”

“But is it true?”

“Yes.”

“And now?”

“Now? I don’t know.”

“A traveller,” she said. “A rider of cows.”

“Yes,” he said, smiling.

“Mr. John Lovall,” she said.

“I would prefer to be called just John.”

“John then.”

“Yes.”