“Perfectly wonderful in its whole plan, and beautifully complete,” insisted Mandy. “See, a living-room, a lovely large one, two bedrooms off it, and, look here, cupboards and closets, and a pantry, and—” here she opened the door in the corner—“a perfectly lovely up-stairs! Not to speak of the cook-house out at the back.”
“Wonderful is the word,” said Cameron, “for why in all the world should these people—?”
“And look, Allan, at Moira! She's just lost in rapture over that fireplace.”
“And I don't wonder,” said her husband. “It is really fine. Whose idea was it?” he continued, moving toward Moira's side, who was standing before a large fireplace of beautiful masonry set in between the two doors that led to the bedrooms at the far end of the living-room.
“It was Andy Hepburn from Loon Lake that built it,” said Mr. Cochrane.
“I wish I could thank him,” said Moira fervently.
“Well, there he is outside the window, Miss Moira,” said a young fellow who was supposed to be busy putting up a molding round the wainscoting, but who was in reality devoting himself to the young lady at the present moment with open admiration. “Here, Andy,” he cried through the window, “you're wanted. Hurry up.”
“Oh, don't, Mr. Dent. What will he think?”
A hairy little man, with a face dour and unmistakably Scotch, came in.
“What's want-it, then?” he asked, with a deliberate sort of gruffness.