“Oh, Jock,” his sister protested, “that’s not what prayers are for.”

“Mebbe not, but I’ve managed it this time,” and, unrepentant, Jock started on another slice of bread and butter.

Jean told Pamela of Jock’s prayer as they went together to fetch Mhor from school.

“But Mhor is a much greater responsibility than Jock.  You know where you are with Jock:  underneath is a bedrock of pure goodness.  You see, we start with the enormous advantage of having had forebears of the very decentest—­not great, not noble, but men who feared God and honoured the King—­men who lived justly and loved mercy.  It would be most uncalled for of us to start out on bypaths with such a straight record behind us.  But Mhor, bless him, is different.  I haven’t a notion what went to the making of him.  I seem to see behind him a long line of men and women who danced and laughed and gambled and feasted, light-hearted, charming people.  I sometimes think I hear them laugh as I teach Mhor What is the chief end of man? ...  I couldn’t love Mhor more if he really were my little brother, but I know that my hold over him is of the frailest.  It’s only now that I have him.  I must make the most of the present—­the little boy days—­before life takes him away from me.”

“You will have his heart always,” Pamela comforted her.  “He won’t forget.  He has been rooted and grounded in love.”

Jean winked away the tears that had forced their way into her eyes, and laughed.

“I’m bringing him up a Presbyterian.  I did try him with the Creed.  He listened politely, and said carelessly, ’It all seems rather sad—­Pilate is a nice name, but not Pontius.’  Then Jock laughed at him learning, ‘What is your name, A or B?’ and Mhor himself preferred to go to the root of the matter with our Shorter Catechism, and answer nobly if obscurely—­Man’s chief end is to glorify God and to enjoy Him for ever.  Indeed, he might be Scots in his passion for theology.  The other night he went to bed very displeased with me, and said, ’You needn’t read me any more of that narsty Bible,’ but when I went up to say good-night he greeted me with, ’How can I keep the commandments when I can’t even remember what they are?’ ...  This is Mhor’s school, or rather Miss Main’s school.”

They went up the steps of a pretty, creeper-covered house.

“It once belonged to an artist,” Jean explained.  “There is a great big light studio at the back which makes an ideal schoolroom.  It’s an ideal school altogether.  Miss Main and her young stepsister are born teachers, full of humour and understanding, as well as being brilliantly clever—­far too clever really for this job; but if they don’t mind we needn’t complain.  They get the children on most surprisingly, and teach them all sorts of things outside their lessons.  Mhor is always astonishing me with his information about things going on in the world....  Yes, do come in.  They won’t mind.  You would like to see the children.”