When she awoke with a start about three o’clock to find two kilted forms gazing at her it is no matter for wonderment that she should have failed to disentangle them immediately from the romantic dream in which she had been wrapped and that for two or three all too brief moments she should have fancied that her attempt, with the help of Yogi, Gaelic Without Tears and dormant ancestral memories, to spirit herself back into the past had been successful, and that the young men, one in the vivid red and yellow of the Macmillan tartan, the other in the kaleidoscopic tartan of the Buchanans, were ancestral visions, their garb shining with celestial radiance. She recalled reading somewhere that Gaelic was the language of Eden, and thought it another good opportunity to murmur, “La math.”

This time the phrase worked. The young man in the Macmillan tartan at once replied:

“La math. Tha è blath.”

“Blah?” Mrs Chester Royde echoed to herself. Was this fair shock-headed young man trying to be rude? The celestial radiance faded from the red and yellow of his kilt, for she had now perceived that the nimbus was caused by the newness of the material.

“Tha è blath,” the fair shock-headed young man repeated, feeling in the pocket of his doublet and drawing forth a copy of Gaelic Without Tears at the same instant as Mrs Royde discovered her copy and began turning over the pages.

“You’d better both speak English,” the second young man mumbled severely in the accent of Glasgow. “Blah’s just about what you’re talking, Alan.”

“I’ve found ‘blath,’” Carrie Royde exclaimed. “It means warm. Yes, it is very warm indeed, isn’t it? I see you’re learning Gaelic from the same book as I’m using. But you’re two exercises ahead of me.”

“I’ve been right through it once,” said the red and yellow kilt, with a touch of loftiness.

His companion grinned.

“What are you laughing at, James?” the red and yellow kilt demanded.

“I was not laughing, Alan. I was thinking to myself.”

Carrie did not want the peace of Glenbristle disturbed by a brawl, and she said quickly that Gaelic was a very difficult language.

“I thought at first it was because I was American,” she went on. “But it seems to me just as difficult for English people.”

“I’m not English,” said the red and yellow kilt hotly, his shock of light-brown hair billowing with indignation at the disgraceful slur.

“Well, I’m not really American,” Carrie said soothingly. “I’m a Canadian Scot married to an American. Royde is my name. But I was a Macdonald,” she added proudly.

“My name’s Alan Macmillan, and this is my friend James Buchanan.”

“I’m so very pleased to meet you both. Are you staying near here?”

“We’re camping further up the glen,” said Macmillan.