"I was wishing," said Jean suddenly, "that I could find myself back in Kensington again, having a cup of tea before a roaring fire."
"I am sorry Scotland is so ungracious to you; but be thankful you have not arrived in a snow blizzard."
"Is it all as ugly and bleak as this?" asked Jean, bluntly.
"What do you consider beautiful? Houses and streets? You will get few of them in this part of the world."
Jean winced under his tone.
"I thought Scotland was rich in mountains and wooded valleys. We have hardly passed a tree. It reminds me of the Essex marshes where I spent most of my childhood."
"Oh, if it is trees you are wanting, we shall be able to give you those. Do you see against the sky line that belt of firs? That is the beginning of the Strathglen property."
"Does it all belong to Mrs. Gordon?" Jean asked, with interest.
"Yes, and to her poor mite of a daughter at her death. It is a fine heritage for her. The pity of it is, that she can only enjoy so little of it. Her world is bounded by her view from her window at present."
"Does the child never go out?"