It was nae mair than four o’clock o’ the afternoon when I reached the cottage and found my landlady and her white-haired auld husband waitin’ to greet me.  They made me as welcome as though I’d been their ain son; ye’d ne’er ha’ thocht they were just lettin’ me a bit room and gie’n me bit and sup for siller.  ‘Deed, an’ that’s what I like fine about the Scots folk.  They’re a’ full o’ kindness o’ that sort.  There’s something hamely aboot a Scots hotel ye’ll no find south o’ the border, and, as for a lodging, why there’s nowt to compare wi’ Scotland for that.  Ye feel ye’re ane o’ the family so soon as ye set doon yer traps and settle doon for a crack wi’ the gude woman o’ the hoose.

This was a fine, quiet, pawky pair I found at Gatehouse-of-Fleet.  I liked them fine frae the first, and it was a delight to think of them as a typical old Scottish couple, spending the twilight years of their lives at hame and in peace.  They micht be alane, I thocht, but wi’ loving sons and daughters supporting them and caring for them, even though their affairs called them to widely scattered places.

Aweel, I was wrong.  We were doing fine wi’ our talk, when a door burst open, and five beautiful children came running in.

“Gie’s a piece, granny,” they clamored.  “Granny—­is there no a piece for us?  We’re so hungry ye’d never ken——­”

They stopped when they saw me, and drew awa’, shyly.

But they need no’ ha’ minded me.  Nor did their granny; she knew me by then.  They got their piece—­bread, thickly spread wi’ gude, hame made jam.  Then they were off again, scampering off toward the river.  I couldna help wonderin’ about the bairns; where was their mither?  Hoo came it they were here wi’ the auld folks?  Aweel, it was not my affairs.

“They’re fine bairns, yon,” I said, for the sake of saying something.

“Oh, aye, gude enow,” said the auld man.  I noticed his gude wife was greetin’ a bit; she wiped her een wi’ the corner of her apron.  I thocht I’d go for a bit walk; I had no mind to be preying into the business o’ the hoose.  So I did.  But that nicht, after the bairns were safe in bed and sound asleep, we all sat aboot the kitchen fire.  And then it seemed the auld lady was minded to talk, and I was glad enow to listen.  For ane thing I’ve always liked to hear the stories folk ha’ in their lives.  And then, tae, I know from my ane experience, how it eases a sair heart, sometimes, to tell a stranger what’s troublin’ ye.  Ye can talk to a stranger where ye wouldna and couldna to ane near and dear to ye.  ’Tis a strange thing, that—­I mind we often hurt those who love us best because we can talk to ithers and not to them.  But so it is.

“I saw ye lookin’ at the bairns the day,” she said.  “Aye, they’re no mine, as ye can judge for yersel’.  It was our dochter Lizzie bore them.  A fine lassie, if I do say so.  She’s in service the noo at a big hoose not so far awa’ but that she can slip over often to see them and us.  As for her husband——­”