The road before The Rigs was quite crowded that April morning.  Mrs. M’Cosh stood at the gate beside the dancing daffodils and the tulips and the opening wallflowers in the border, her hands folded on her spotless white apron, her face beaming with its accustomed kind smile, and watched her family depart.

“Keep a haud o’ Peter, Mhor,” she cautioned.  “Ye needna come back here if ye lose him.”  The safety of the rest of the party did not seem to concern her.

Mr. and Mrs. Jowett were there, having breakfasted an hour earlier than usual, thus risking the wrath of their cherished domestics.  Mrs. Jowett was carrying a large box of chocolates as a parting gift to the boys, while Mr. Jowett had a bottle of lavender water for Jean.

Augusta Hope had walked up from Hopetoun with her mother’s love to the travellers, a basket of fruit for the boys, and a book for Jean.

The little Miss Watsons hopped forth from their dwelling with an offering of a home-baked cake, “just in case you get hungry on the road, you know.”

Bella Bathgate was there, looking very saturnine, and counselling Mhor as to his behaviour.  “Dinna lean oot o’ the caur.  Mony a body has lost their heid stickin’ it oot of a caur.  Here’s some tea-biscuits for Peter.  You’ll be ower prood for onything but curranty-cake, I suppose.”

Mhor assured her he was not, and gratefully accepted the biscuits.  “Isn’t it fun Peter’s going?  I couldn’t have gone either if he hadn’t been allowed, but I expect I’ll have to hold him in my arms a lot.  He’ll want to jump out at dogs.”

And Mr. and Mrs. Macdonald were there—­Mrs. Macdonald absolutely weighed down with gifts.  “It’s just a trifle for each of you,” she explained.  “No, no, don’t thank me; it’s nothing.”

“I’ve brought you nothing but my blessing, Jean,” the minister said.  “You’ll never be better than I wish you.”

“Don’t talk as if I were going away for good,” said Jean, with a lump in her throat.  “It’s only a little holiday.”

“Who can tell?” sighed Mrs. Macdonald.  “It’s an uncertain world.  But we’ll hope that you’ll come back to us, Jean.  Are you sure you are warmly clad?  Remember it’s only April, and the evenings are cold.”

David packed Jean, Jock, and Mhor into the car.  Peter was poised on one of the seats that let down, a cushion under him to protect the pale fawn cloth from his paws.  All the presents found places, the luggage was put on the top, Stark took his seat, David, his coat pocket bulging with maps, got in beside him; and amid a chorus of good-byes they were off.

Jean, looking back rather wistfully at The Rigs, got a last sight of Mrs. M’Cosh shaking her head dubiously at the departing car.