“Hush!” She sprang away. Heavy footsteps were coming up the path. I had just time enough to fling Miss Gilchrist’s shawl over my head and resume my seat, when a couple of buxom country wives bustled past the mouth of the quarry. They saw us, beyond a doubt: indeed, they stared hard at us, and muttered some comment as they went by, and left us gazing at each other.
“They took us for a picnic,” I whispered.
“The queer thing,” said Flora, “is that they were not surprised. The sight of you——”
“Seen sideways in this shawl, and with my legs hidden by the stone here, I might pass for an elderly female junketer.”
“This is scarcely the hour for a picnic,” answered my wise girl, “and decidedly not the weather.”
The sound of another footstep prevented my reply. This time the wayfarer was an old farmer-looking fellow in a shepherd’s plaid and bonnet powdered with mist. He halted before us and nodded, leaning rheumatically on his staff.
“A coarse moarnin’. Ye’ll be from Leadburn, I’m thinkin’?”
“Put it at Peebles,” said I, making shift to pull the shawl close about my damning finery.
“Peebles!” he said reflectively. “I’ve ne’er ventured so far as Peebles. I’ve contemplated it! But I was none sure whether I would like it when I got there. See here: I recommend ye no’ to be lazin’ ower the meat, gin ye’d drap in for the fun. A’m full late, mysel’!”