With Rose walked Miss Brodie, head up, like Sybil Thorndike, her nose arched and proud. She wore her loose brown tweed coat with the beaver collar tightly buttoned, her brown felt hat with the brim up at one side and down at the other. Behind Miss Brodie, last in the group, little Eunice Gardiner who, twenty-eight years later, said of Miss Brodie, “I must visit her grave,” gave a skip between each of her walking steps as if she might even break into pirouettes on the pavement, so that Miss Brodie, turning round, said from time to time, “Now, Eunice!” And, from time to time again, Miss Brodie would fall behind to keep Eunice company.

Sandy, who had been reading Kidnapped, was having a conversation with the hero, Alan Breck, and was glad to be with Mary Macgregor because it was not necessary to talk to Mary.

“Mary, you may speak quietly to Sandy.”

“Sandy won’t talk to me,” said Mary who later, in that hotel fire, ran hither and thither till she died.

“Sandy cannot talk to you if you are so stupid and disagreeable. Try to wear an agreeable expression at least, Mary.”

“Sandy, you must take this message o’er the heather to the Macphersons,” said Alan Breck. “My life depends upon it, and the Cause no less.”

“I shall never fail you, Alan Breck,” said Sandy. “Never.”

“Mary,” said Miss Brodie, from behind, “please try not to lag behind Sandy.”

Sandy kept pacing ahead, fired on by Alan Breck whose ardour and thankfulness, as Sandy prepared to set off across the heather, had reached touching proportions.

Mary tried to keep up with her. They were crossing the Meadows, a gusty expanse of common land, glaring green under the snowy sky. Their destination was the Old Town, for Miss Brodie had said they should see where history had been lived; and their route had brought them to the Middle Meadow Walk.

Eunice, unaccompanied at the back, began to hop to a rhyme which she repeated to herself:

Edinburgh, Leith,

Portobello, Musselburgh

And

Dalkeith.

Then she changed to the other foot.

Edinburgh, Leith…

Miss Brodie turned round and hushed her, then called forward to Mary Macgregor who was staring at an Indian student who was approaching,

“Mary, don’t you want to walk tidily?”

“Mary,” said Sandy, “stop staring at the brown man.”

The nagged child looked numbly at Sandy and tried to quicken her pace. But Sandy was walking unevenly, in little spurts forward and little halts, as Alan Breck began to sing to her his ditty before she took to the heather to deliver the message that was going to save Alan’s life. He sang:

This is the song of the sword of Alan:

The smith made it,

The fire set it;

Now it shines in the hand of Alan Breck.

Then Alan Breck clapped her shoulder and said, “Sandy, you are a brave lass and want nothing in courage that any King’s man might possess.”

“Don’t walk so fast,” mumbled Mary.