At the farther end of the loch the train halted at the tiny station of Lochearnhead, a small collection of houses at the end of the picturesque little lake, where the green wooded banks sloped to the water’s edge. Quiet, secluded, and far from the bustle of town or city it was. I found a rural little lake-side village, with a post-office and general shop combined, and a few charming old-world cottages inhabited by sturdy, homely Scottish folk.
Of a brown-whiskered shepherd passing near the station I inquired for Glendevon House, whereupon he pointed to a big white country mansion high upon the hill-side, commanding a wide view across the loch and surrounding hills; a house hemmed in by tall firs, fresh in their bright spring green.
A quarter of an hour later, having climbed the winding road leading to it, I entered the long drive flanked by rhododendrons, and was approaching the house when, across the lawn a slim female figure, in a white cotton gown, with a crimson flower in the corsage, came flying toward me, crying:
“Uncle Colin! Uncle Colin! At last!”
And a moment later Natalia wrung my hand warmly, her cheeks flushed with pleasure at our encounter.
“Whatever is the meaning of this latest escapade?” I asked. “You’ve given everybody a pretty fright, I can tell you.”
“I know, Uncle Colin. But you’ll forgive me, won’t you? Say you do,” she urged.
“I can’t before I know what has really happened.”
“Let’s go over to that seat,” she suggested, pointing to a rustic bench set invitingly on the lawn beneath a spreading oak, “and I’ll tell you everything.”
Then as we walked across the lawn she regarded me critically and said: “How thin you are! How very travel-worn you look!”