“I do,” said the young man in a tone of decent melancholy.  “She once cuffed my ears the month I stayed with you for falling in the burn.  Does she beat you, Doctor?”

“Indeed, no,” said the little old gentleman; “not as yet.  But physically she is my superior and I live in terror.”  Then abruptly, “For heaven’s sake, Lewie, mind the mare.”

“It’s all right,” said the driver, as the dogcart swung neatly round an ugly turn.  “There’s the mist going off the top of Etterick Law, and—­why, that’s the end of the Dreichill?”

“It’s the Dreichill, and beyond it is the Little Muneraw.  Are you glad to be home, Lewie?”

“Rather,” said the young man gravely.  “This is my own countryside, and I fancy it’s the last place a man forgets.”

“I fancy so—­with right-thinking people.  By the way, I have much to congratulate you on.  We old fogies in this desert place have been often seeing your name in the newspapers lately.  You are a most experienced traveller.”

“Fair.  But people made a great deal more of that than it deserved.  It was very simple, and I had every chance.  Some day I will go out and do the same thing again with no advantages, and if I come back you may praise me then.”

“Right, Lewie.  A bare game and no chances is the rule of war.  And now, what will you do?”

“Settle down,” said the young man with mock pathos, “which in my case means settling up also.  I suppose it is what you would call the crucial moment in my life.  I am going in for politics, as I always intended, and for the rest I shall live a quiet country life at Etterick.  I’ve a wonderful talent for rusticity.”

The Doctor shot an inquiring glance from beneath the flaps of his hat.  “I never can make up my mind about you, Lewie.”

“I daresay not.  It is long since I gave up trying to make up my mind about myself.”

“When you were a very small and very bad boy I made the usual prophecy that you would make a spoon or spoil a horn.  Later I declared you would make the spoon.  I still keep to that opinion, but I wish to goodness I knew what shape your spoon would take.”

“Ornamental, Doctor, some odd fancy spoon, but not useful.  I feel an inner lack of usefulness.”

“Humph!  Then things are serious, Lewie, and I, as your elder, should give advice; but confound it, my dear, I cannot think what it should be.  Life has been too easy for you, a great deal too easy.  You want a little of the salt and iron of the world.  You are too clever ever to be conceited, and you are too good a fellow ever to be a fool, but apart from these sad alternatives there are numerous middle stages which are not very happy.”

The young man’s face lengthened, as it always did either in repose or reflection.

“You are old and wise, Doctor.  Have you any cure for a man with sufficient money and no immediate profession to prevent stagnation?”