“I see you are a thought-reader,” he said, “as well as a thinker.”
“Oh, as for that,” said the shepherd, “those that spend their lives amang the mountains have aye mickle time for thinkin’. It’s a gran’ preevilege to be set to mind the sheep.”
They were now within sight of the cottage and Angus Linklater led the way through a little garden; at the sound of their footsteps his wife opened the door, it seemed almost as though she were expecting her husband to bring some one back with him, but after one glance at the visitor her eagerness died away; she was a grave woman with dark hair parted plainly beneath her white mutch, and with a certain sadness in her eyes and in her voice. Her welcome was, however, as hearty as the shepherd’s and before long she had furnished Ralph with her husband’s Sunday garments and was busily preparing tea. When the tired traveller emerged again from the back room in dry clothes, he thought nothing had ever looked more comfortable than that homely little kitchen with its fire of logs, its old grandfather clock, and its quaint, corner cupboard, black with age. Some lines of Stevenson’s came to his mind as Mrs. Linklater made room for him by the hearth.
“Noo is the soopit ingle sweet,
An’ liltin’ kettle.”
Delicious too was the tea and the oatcake after his monotonous bread and water diet. Angus was still out attending to the lamb he had brought home, and Ralph wondered whether the shepherd and his wife lived alone in this quiet place. Among the few books on the shelf, he noticed, however, sundry modern adventuring books which had been the delight of his childhood. “I see you have some children,” he said, finding his hostess not nearly so talkative as the shepherd had been.
“We hae a son,” she replied, her eyes filling with tears, and crossing the room she took down “The Dog Crusoe” and showed him the inscription on the flyleaf.
It was a prize for good conduct awarded to Dugald Linklater. Ralph instantly felt that he had touched on a sore subject but whether the son were dead or a source of trouble to the mother he could not guess. The book was still in his hand when Angus returned.
“Ah,” he said, with a sigh, “you’re lookin’ at puir Dugald’s prizes. We’ve lost him, sir. But he’ll come hame yet. I’m no dootin’ that. He’ll come hame.”
Little by little Ralph gathered the facts of the case. It seemed that Dugald had been a clever and promising lad, that Lord Ederline having a fancy for him had taken him as his valet, and for a time all had gone well. But London life had proved too full of temptation for the young Scotsman, the betting mania had seized him, and had swiftly dragged him down, until ruined and disgraced he had disappeared into those hidden depths which are sought by the failures of all classes. It was now three years since anything had been heard of him, but the father and mother still lived in the belief that he would return, and Ralph understood now the expectant look which he had noticed in the sad face of his hostess as he walked up the garden path with her husband.