It was late on an April evening in the glen, the snow had melted, and swelled the river far above its banks, the waterfalls were pouring down the hillsides, the small burns were noisy and boisterous, and Andy Gowdy, who had been to the town with the cart for coal and a bag of flour, was not sorry when he came to the last gate of all. As soon as he had "loused" the pony, he carried into the kitchen a sack of flour, a small parcel of tea and sugar, and a letter. This he brought to his mother, who was frying something over the fire.
"There's a letter for you," he drawled.
"Leave it there—it can bide. It's about the sheep wash and tar."
"I'm no so sure of that, it looks out of the ordinary, and the postmark is London."
"Land sakes—it's for the keeper above."
"Nay, it's for Mrs. Andy Gowdy, Ardnashiel."
"Then give it here. No, my hands is black—you read it, Andy."
Andy at once opened the letter and began:
"Lincoln's Inn Fields."
"Aye, didn't I tell ye it was aboot the farm!" interrupted his mother.