She now tidied the carriage violently, carefully hiding the book Pamela had been reading and putting the cushion on the rack.  Finally, tucking the travelling-rug firmly round her mistress, she remarked pleasantly, “A h’eight hours’ journey without an ’itch!”

“Certainly without an aitch,” thought Pamela, as she said, “You like travelling, Mawson?”

“Oh yes, m’m.  I always ’ave ’ad a desire to travel.  Specially, if I may say so, to see Scotland, Miss.  But, oh, ain’t it bleak?  Before it was dark I ‘ad me eyes glued to the window, lookin’ out.  Such miles of ’eather and big stones and torrents, Miss, and nothing to be seen but a lonely sheep—­’ardly an ’ouse on the ’orizon.  It gave me quite a turn.”

“And this is nothing to the Highlands, Mawson.”

“Ain’t it, Miss?  Well, it’s the bleakest I’ve seen yet, an’ I’ve been to Brighton and Blackpool.  Travelled quite a lot, I ’ave, Miss.  The lydy who read me ’and said I would, for me teeth are so wide apart.”  Which cryptic saying puzzled Pamela until Priorsford was reached, when other things engaged her attention.

* * * * *

There was another passenger for Priorsford in the London express.  He was called Peter Reid, and he was as short and plain as his name.  Peter Reid was returning to his native town a very rich man.  He had left it a youth of eighteen and entered the business of a well-to-do uncle in London, and since then, as the saying is, he had never looked over his shoulder; fortune showered her gifts on him, and everything he touched seemed to turn to gold.

While his mother lived he had visited her regularly, but for thirty years his mother had been lying in Priorsford churchyard, and he had not cared to keep in touch with the few old friends he had.  For forty-five years he had lived in London, so there was almost nothing of Priorsford left in him—­nothing, indeed, except the desire to see it again before he died.

They had been forty-five quite happy years for Peter Reid.  Money-making was the thing he enjoyed most in this world.  It took the place to him of wife and children and friends.  He did not really care much for the things money could buy; he only cared to heap up gold, to pull down barns and build greater ones.  Then suddenly one day he was warned that his soul would be required of him—­that soul of his for which he had cared so little.  After more than sixty years of health, he found his body failing him.  In great irritation, but without alarm, he went to see a specialist, one Lauder, in Wimpole Street.

He supposed he would be made to take a holiday, and grudged the time that would be lost.  He grudged, also, the doctor’s fee.

“Well,” he said, when the examination was over, “how long are you going to keep me from my work?”

The doctor looked at him thoughtfully.  He was quite a young man, tall, fair-haired, and fresh-coloured, with a look about him of vigorous health that was heartening and must have been a great asset to him in his profession.