“Aye, sure!” cried Maggie Jean, seconding her father’s hospitable invitation.  And without another word she produced from various hidden receptacles tablecloth, knives and forks, bread, oatcake, butter, cheese, and jam, with the rapidity of a conjurer—­as the dazed Bonar thought.  Then down came a frying-pan, and she began to cook eggs and ham over the bright fire.

It was impossible to resist, and Bonar had no wish to refuse the food he needed so badly.

“You’re very good, I’m sure!” he faltered out.  “I really think it was hunger alone that made me faint.  I’ve never done such a thing in my life before!”

“Ye’d be nane the worse for a wee drappie sperrits afore y’r supper,” said Davie.  “Peter, lad, fetch oot a drap frae yon jar beyont!”

Peter dutifully obeyed, retiring into some back recess and returning with a small jug of whiskey, from which his father poured out drams for the guest and himself.

“Y’r guid health, sir!” he said hospitably, lifting his glass.  “May ye be nane the worse for y’r wettin’, the nicht!”

Bonar would have been less than human to have refused.  He quietly sipped his whiskey, which was excellent.  The spirit gave him renewed strength; the savor of Maggie Jean’s cooking whetted his appetite.  He owed it to himself to take ordinary care of his health, he reasoned interiorly.  He would tell them who he was, though, before he left.

He had indeed been saved from serious disaster, if not from death, by means of this family.  Peter’s lantern—­which he had not troubled to extinguish when the moon rendered it no longer necessary—­had been Bonar’s first guiding-star.  Don’s bark had renewed his energy, and the result was shelter and hospitality.  Like a sensible man he accepted the good fortune which had fallen to him, and ate a hearty meal.

When it came to the question of starting out again, he found it less easy than he had anticipated.

“Ye’ll nae think o’ leavin’ this hoose the nicht!” the old man declared, when, after his supper and a pipe, Bonar touched on the subject.

“It’s an impossibeelity for ony mon as disna’ ken the hill yon to find his wye up or doon in siclike weather,” Jock added grimly.

Bonar knew how true was Jock’s remark.  Nevertheless, he felt very uncomfortable at the prospect of remaining there for the night, as Davie had proposed.  Did they know who he was?  It seemed most unlikely, with the kindness they had shown him!  Yet he could not stay, he told himself, under false pretences.

“It’s more than kind of you to treat me like this,” he said.  “I could never have expected such a friendly welcome to one who is a perfect stranger to you all.”

“Nae altogither a stranger, whateever,” returned Davie—­and for a moment there was ever so slight a suspicion of a twinkle in his kindly old eyes.  “Ye’re the new gauger we’ve haird sae muckle aboot, I’m thinkin’.”