James Buchanan began to consider Mrs Chester Royde from a new angle. A visit to Canada with letters of introduction to the right people might lead to a good opening in business.

“I’m much obliged to you, Mistress Royde. I’ll certainly think seriously about your offer.”

By now they had reached a grassy level at the foot of a steep rocky escarpment in the shelter of which were pitched the low green tents of her hosts.

“I feel I’m being entertained by two Jacobite fugitives,” Carrie declared, with a sigh of gratified romance.

“They wouldn’t have been able to offer you tea,” Alan Macmillan reminded her.

“No, that’s true. And I just can’t tell you how much I’m looking forward to a cup of tea.”

Nor was Carrie disappointed by that cup of tea brewed with water from a near-by stream. It seemed the most delicious cup of tea she had ever drunk and afterwards when she sat smoking in the mellow afternoon sunshine, her back supported by a ledge of warm granite, she was confirmed in her belief that this glen welcomed her as a child of its own.

“I wish you two boys would tell me more about yourselves,” she said. “And more about what you’re going to do for Scotland. I can’t help feeling I was brought to Glenbristle to-day for some purpose. I am aware of a most mysterious sort of psychic atmosphere all around me. I couldn’t hope to put it into words, because of course if the atmosphere really is psychic you just can’t put it into words. Yes, it’s a very strange sensation. If I were a poet I would want to write a wonderful poem right now.”

“You’d better get Alan to write one for you,” said James Buchanan. “He’s a poet.”

“He is? Why, Alan, isn’t that … oh dear, I hope you don’t mind my calling you Alan?”

“Not at all,” Alan replied, scowling through a rich blush because he noticed what he fancied was a slightly derisive expression in James Buchanan’s eyes.

“And what are you, Mr James? Are you a poet too?”

“No, I’m a lawyer,” said James Buchanan in the voice of a future Lord Justice Clerk.

“Ah, that’s why you’re so good at figures,” Carrie observed brightly. And she turned round to gaze reverently at the bard. “I suppose your poetry is full of Celtic mysticism?”

“I hope not,” said the bard distastefully, who from what he and the young poets of the Scottish Renaissance believed was the sunny summit of Parnassus had been hurling savage epigrams at the Celtic twilight since his first term at Glasgow University.

“You hope not?” Carrie exclaimed in surprise. “But surely that’s the great gift we Celts can offer the world to-day?”