CHAPTER VIII
THE ROWAN'S LIGHT
Dick's cuts were not deep and he joined his companions at supper. One of the windows was open and the smell of peat smoke came in, while the noise of Ewes water running down the glen mingled pleasantly with the bleating of sheep. The room, however, was illuminated by electric light and a row of sepia drawings hung on the wall.
"There's something distinctive about the Border," Whitney remarked; "but there's one thing that strikes me. In old English cities—Chester, for example—there are streets that look as they did in Queen Elizabeth's reign; but the Scottish towns you've shown me might have been built forty years ago."
Andrew smiled.
"The reason lies in our national character. We're utilitarian and don't allow sentiment to interfere with progress. As soon as a building gets out of date, we pull it down. Our past lives in the race's memory and we don't need to keep it embodied in stone."
He turned to Dick, who had been unusually quiet.
"It's lucky you didn't get worse hurt. Did you see the car's number?"
Dick hesitated a moment.
"No-o. The plate was covered with mud."