“Oh, I don’t understand every word in Gaelic,” Ben Nevis continued. “But if I know what they’re talking about I can follow perfectly what they say. What you want to do is to get hold of a few simple expressions one’s always using up here like ‘Half luke’ and ‘Half ewer,’ and then when they start talking back you smile and nod and they’re awfully pleased.”

“Half luke? What’s that mean?”

“Half luke: it’s wet. Half ewer: it’s cold.”

“Half luke. I must remember that,” said Chester.

“I’ll spell it for you, Chester,” said his wife. “It comes in the first exercise of Gaelic Without Tears. T-H-A-E-F-L-I-U-C-H.”

“What’s that mean?”

“It’s wet.”

“But Ben Nevis said ‘it’s wet’ was ‘half luke.’”

“That’s what I spelt for you.”

“And you’d have me learn Gaelic?”

“I certainly would, Chester.”

“Well, I’ve thought of another way of showing my appreciation of Scotland, Carrie.”

“What’s that?”

“You’ll see presently,” said her husband, a dreamy look in his eyes.

“I believe I’ll learn Gaelic,” said Myrtle.

“What do you want to learn Gaelic for?” asked her sister-in-law.

“Goody, why shouldn’t I, Carrie?”

“You aren’t Scottish.”

“Well, you don’t have to be French to learn French,” Myrtle protested. “No, ma’am, you certainly don’t.”

“Oh, if you want to learn Gaelic there’s no reason why you shouldn’t.”

“I don’t think so either,” Myrtle said in a voice that made Carrie more determined than ever that her sister-in-law should go to Knocknacolly to-morrow and that she herself would stay at home to write letters.

But when the Knocknacolly party had left, Carrie felt it was a pity to waste such lovely weather indoors over letters and told her hostess that she thought she’d explore Glenbristle again, and have another picnic lunch by herself.

“Isn’t there a cave somewhere near Glenbristle where Prince Charlie hid from the redcoats?” she asked.

“Oh, my dear child, Prince Charlie’s cave is away on the other side of Glenbogle half-way up Ben Booey. You’d never find it by yourself even if you could walk as far.”

“I suppose I must have dreamt about this cave near Glenbristle. It seems so familiar somehow. But I have these strange dreams about the past, Mrs MacDonald.”

“Do you, dear?” her hostess boomed placidly. “You should drink a cup of camomile before you go to sleep. it’s an old-fashioned remedy, but these old-fashioned remedies are often the best.”

“But I like dreaming, Mrs MacDonald.”

“I can’t say I do. I dislike so much the feeling of not being able to control one’s movements, which is such a feature of most dreams.”

When Carrie received her sandwiches from the hands of Toker she asked him if he knew anything about a cave near Glenbristle.