“Oh, that’s angelic of you, Iain,” said Myrtle. “But there’s no reason why you should put yourselves out for Carrie and me. We’ll enjoy exploring the way for ourselves.”

“Yes, indeed,” Carrie added. “And besides, I think the cave is too far away for a Sunday afternoon walk. So please, don’t bother; we’ll just take a little walk by ourselves.”

“It’s no bother,” said Murdoch solemnly.

“And we really have nothing to do this afternoon,” Iain added. “We’d enjoy a walk.”

“It’s terribly sweet of you both,” Carrie said. “But Myrtle and I couldn’t think of dragging you out on such a hot afternoon. And it’s looking very much like rain.”

“I like a good tramp in the rain,” Murdoch declared.

“I’m not so fond of rain myself,” said Myrtle. “I’ll tell you what, why don’t you two boys take Carrie for a walk, and I’ll stay home and write some letters?”

“Right-oh,” Iain agreed, without a trace of disappointment in his reception of the news of Myrtle’s defection.

“I don’t think I want to get wet just to see a cave,” said Carrie quickly. “Anyway, I’m not really so anxious to see this cave at all. I just had an idea yesterday that it would make a good object for a walk as I was by myself. And then Myrtle thought the cave sounded kind of cute. And we just thought we’d wander along and perhaps find it. But if it’s going to rain I think I’ll stay home.”

Murdoch thumped the glass.

“Doubt if it’ll rain before the sun goes down,” he decided with nautical knowledgeableness.

“I wouldn’t dream of setting my opinion against yours in the matter of weather,” Carrie broke in, “but I believe it’s going to rain this very afternoon. So I think the wisest plan is to give up visiting the cave to-day and go there some day later in the week. I’m sure I don’t know what put this idea of a cave into my head?”

“You may have read about it in my little volume, Echoes of Glenbogle,” said the chaplain.

“My, are you a poet too? I mean are you a poet, Mr Fletcher?” Carrie exclaimed.

“I have ventured to commit one or two little indiscretions in verse,” the chaplain confessed.

“And you’ve written a poem about this cave. Oh, please read it to us, Mr Fletcher,” Carrie begged.

“Oh, do, please, Mr Fletcher,” Myrtle added earnestly. “I think it’ll be so much nicer to hear Mr Fletcher’s poem about the cave than walk all that way to see it, don’t you, Carrie?”

“I’d just adore to have Mr Fletcher read us his poem.”

The chaplain smiled modestly and going to the bookcase took down the slim volume of his verse from which he began to read: