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?”

“I’m saving up for a bicycle,” the Mhor broke in, becoming aware that the conversation turned on money.  “I’ve got half a crown and a thru-penny-bit and fourpence-ha’penny in pennies:  and I’ve got a duster to clean it with when I’ve got it.”

Jean stroked his head.  “I don’t think you’ll ever be overburdened with riches, Mhor, old man.  But it must be tremendous fun to be rich.  I love books where suddenly a lawyer’s letter comes saying that someone has left them a fortune.”

“What would you do with a fortune if you got it?” Peter Reid asked.

“Need you ask?” laughed Pamela.  “Miss Jean would at once make it over to David and Jock and Mhor.”

“Oh, well,” said Jean, “of course they would come first, but, oh, I would do such a lot of things!  I’d find out where money was most needed and drop it on the people anonymously so that they wouldn’t be bothered about thanking anyone.  I would creep about like a beneficent Puck and take worried frowns away, and straighten out things for tired people, and, above all, I’d make children smile.  There’s no fun or satisfaction got from giving big sums to hospitals and things—­that’s all right for when you’re dead.  I want to make happiness while I’m alive.  I don’t think a million pounds would be too much for all I want to do.”

“Aw, Jean,” said Mhor, “if you had a million pounds would you buy me a bicycle?”

“A bicycle,” said Jean, “and a motor and an aeroplane and a Shetland pony and a Newfoundland pup.  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.  I am obliged to you for your hospitality, especially for singing me ‘Strathairlie.’  I never thought to hear it again.  I wonder if I might trouble you to write me out the words.”

“But take the book,” said Jean, running to get it and pressing it into his hands.  “Perhaps you’ll find other songs in it you used to know and like.  Take it to keep.”

Pamela dropped her embroidery-frame and watched the scene.

Mhor and Peter stood looking on.  Jock lifted his head from his books to listen.  It was no new thing for the boys to see Jean give away her most treasured possessions:  she was a born “Madam Liberality.”

“But,” Peter Reid objected, “it is rather a rare book.  You value it yourself.”