O. Douglas

“ Everybody hasn't your passion for puddock-stools."
"But you would like to see them," Mhor assured him. "I'm going to fill a bowl with chucky-stones and moss and stick the puddock-stools among them and make a fairy garden for Jean. And if I can find any more I'll make one for the Honourable; she is very kind about giving me chocolates."
They were out of doors by this time, and Mhor was pointing out the glories of the garden.
"You see, we have a burn in our garden with a little bridge over it; almost no one else has a burn and a bridge of their very own. ”

“ Jean rose from the piano. Jock had got out his books and had begun his lessons. Mhor and Peter were under the table playing at being cave-men. Pamela was stitching at her embroidery. Peter Reid sat shading his eyes from the light with his hand.
Jean knelt down on the rug and held out her hands to the blazing fire.
"It must be sad to be old and rich," she said softly, almost as if she were speaking to herself. "It is so very certain that we can carry nothing out of this world.... ”

“ Peter Reid sank thankfully into a corner of the sofa, while Jean busied herself at the writing-table so that this visitor, who looked so tired, need not feel that he should offer conversation.
Presently he said, "You are very fond of The Rigs?"
Jean came and sat down beside him.
"It's the only home we have ever known," she said. "We came here from India to live with our great-aunt—first me alone, and then David and Jock. And Father and Mother were with us when Father had leave. I have hardly ever been away from The Rigs. ”

“ M'Cosh in the kitchen she will tell you plenty of faults. The water doesn't heat well, for one thing, and the range simply eats up coal, and there is no proper pantry. Your wife would want to know about these things."
"Haven't got a wife," said Peter Reid gruffly.
"No? Well, your housekeeper, then. You couldn't buy a house without getting to know all about the hot water and pantries."
"There is no question of my buying it."
"Oh, isn't there?" cried Jean joyfully. "What a relief! All the time I've been showing you the house I've been picturing us removing sadly to a villa in the Langhope Road. ”

“ The landlord knew it well—a quaint cottage with a pretty garden. Old Miss Alison Jardine was living in it when he came first to Priorsford; dead now, but the young folk were still in it.
"Young folk?" said Peter Reid.
"Yes," said the landlord, "Miss Jean Jardine and her brothers. Orphans, I'm told. Father an Anglo-Indian. Nice people? Oh, very. Quiet and inoffensive. They don't own the house, though. I hear the landlord is a very wealthy man in London. By the way, same name as yourself, sir."
"Do I look like a millionaire?" ”

“ Great-aunt Alison came to The Rigs first about thirty years ago. Do you, by any chance, know our landlord in London? Mr. Peter Reid is his name."
"I know him."
"He's frightfully rich, they say. I don't suppose you know him well enough to ask him not to sell The Rigs? It can't make much difference to him, though it means so much to us. Is he old, our landlord?"
"A man in his prime," said Peter Reid.
"That's pretty old, isn't it?" said Jean—"about sixty, I think. Of course," hastily, "sixty isn't really old. ”

“ Pamela spoke first. "There speaks sweet and twenty," she said.
"Yes," said Jean. "I know it's quite easy for me to speak in that lordly way of disposing of possessions, for I haven't got any to dispose of."
"Then," said Pamela, "we are to take it that you are ready to spring across any minute?"
"So far as goods and gear go; but I'm rich in other things. I'm pretty heavily weighted by David, and Jock, and Mhor."
Then Peter Reid spoke, still with his hand over his eyes.
"Once you begin to make money it clings. How can you get rid of it?" ”

“ Up the steep, steep banks o' Strathairlie.
When I sailed ower the sea,
A laddie bold and free,
The corn sprang green on Strathairlie!
When I come back again,
It's an auld man walks his lane
Slow and sad ower the fields o' Strathairlie. ”

“ I'll make a story for you in bed to-night all about what you would have if I were rich."
"And Jock, too?"
Being assured that Jock would not be overlooked Mhor grabbed Peter round the neck and proceeded to babble to him about bicycles and aeroplanes, motors and Newfoundland pups.
Jean looked apologetically at her guests.
"When you're poor you've got to dream," she said. "Oh, must you go, Mr. Reid? But you'll come back to-morrow, won't you? We would honestly like you to come and stay with us."
"Thank you," said Peter Reid, "but I am going back to London in a day or two. ”

“ They are quite nice villas as villas go, but they have only tiny strips of gardens, and stairs that come to meet you as you go in at the front door, and anyway no house could ever be home to us after The Rigs—not though it had hot and cold water in every room and a pantry on every floor. ”

“ But how extraordinary it was! The instinct that makes people wish to stand well with the rich and powerful he could understand and commend, but the instinct that opens wide doors to the shabby and the unsuccessful was not one that he knew anything about: it was certainly not an instinct for this world as he knew it.
Just as they were finishing tea Mrs. M'Cosh ushered in Miss Pamela Reston.
"You did say I might come in when I liked," she said as she greeted Jean. "I've had tea, thank you. ”