‘Like Sir Henry Wotton’s lines about the death of Lady Morton,’ said Louisa. ‘I remember crying over that when I was at school. I used to think it was the shortest and most romantic poem in the English language:

‘He first deceased; she for a little tried
To live without him: liked it not, and died.’

‘Yes,’ said Marnie. ‘I’ve never heard that before, but just like that. That says it all.’ She looked at her watch. ‘Gee – look at the time! I’ve wittered on about myself most of the afternoon and it’s half of four already! It’s gotten a bit chilly. What an egomaniac you must think me . . . I do apologise. Thank you for listening to me but you should have stopped me.’

‘No way!’ said Louisa. ‘I want to know more, but we’ll have to dash now if we want to grab a cup of tea before we start the next session at five. You can’t leave me in suspense for long, though. Will you promise to let me have the next exciting instalment soon?’

‘Okay,’ said Marnie, ‘but only if you tell me more about your story too.’

‘Hmm – perhaps,’ said Louisa, after a moment’s hesitation. ‘But mine’s not nearly so interesting. Come on then. We’d better hurry.’

They hurtled down the twisty path by the burn, slithering and sliding on the loose stones at high risk of twisting ankles, but both finding it a release after the intensity of exploring the past.

They arrived back at the house laughing and breathless and Isobel, who was pouring out tea and dispensing home-made biscuits in the kitchen, thought she had never seen such a change in a short space of time as that which had occurred in Marnie. A testament to the curative powers of laughter and friendship, she thought, and sent a grateful, approving look in Louisa’s direction. ‘Well, you both look full of good Scottish fresh air,’ she said, smiling a welcome to them. ‘Come and stoke yourselves up before you start work again.’