We departed in the twilight of the 20th of June. It was a rare evening. Many trout were rising on Loch Coulter; we passed sheep that scarcely lifted their heads to look at us, so greedily were they feeding with their lambs amongst them. No sheep was shorn. We crossed the road, we climbed into the triangle of low hills which divides the valley of the Truim from the Spey, and on the approach of morning we lay down amongst birch trees, in the security of a wilderness of rocks above Glentruim to sleep until night made journeying safe once more. There, high over the Truim’s noisy undiscernible stream, we saw the well-known valley, and heard cattle lowing, and a car went down the north road. It was like the quietest day of other years. When the sun descended we rolled up our bundle. Our route was dangerous amongst trees and rocks and we made slow progress; clouds of midges tormented us. We did not reach our house until past midnight. We could not see a light anywhere in the valley. The absence of lights seemed ominous; yet it was late, and country folk go early to bed, saving their lamps: midsummer had never lights that I could recall, save the sky, but I was afraid when I saw nothing but darkness in the glen. I searched in vain for a glimmer that would show men were awake in their houses.

‘Hugh!’ Terry whispered when we came to the familiar gate. It was open. ‘We must have forgotten to lock the gate,’ she said under her breath.

‘Perhaps the postman left it open,’ I returned in the same voice. Her hand touched and clasped mine. We tiptoed up the path. I thought that the door was open and I checked my pace.

‘Are you seeing anything, Hugh?’ Terry whispered. ‘Can you make out—what are you seeing?’

‘Nothing,’ I lied, with my eyes fixed on the open door.

‘I can’t bear to go farther,’ she muttered. ‘I’m frightened.’

‘There’s nothing to fear,’ I said gently. ‘We’ve come too far to go back.’

I was afraid to death myself but not with fear of danger. Terry let go my hand to fall on her knees beside a flower-plot.

‘I’m going to take plants back with me,’ she said, and then, ‘It’s all trampled down!’ she cried. She stared about her until she perceived the black gap of the open door.

‘We locked the door,’ she said.

‘I’m not certain if we did,’ I began. ‘In the hurry—’

‘We did! I know we did! Hugh, the kitchen window’s broken.’

There was something horrible about the silence of the house, about our petrified silent vigil at the door of our own house. I felt suddenly desolate.