Jean withdrew at once, feeling that she had been tactless and David had been unnecessarily rude—­David who had never been rude to her since they were children, and had told each other home-truths without heat and without ill-feeling on either side.  If this was to be the effect of owning a car—­

“Wilfred the Gazelle’s dead,” said Mhor, and got out, followed by Jock, and in a minute or two by Jean.

They all sat down in the heather by the road-side.

Dead car nowithstanding, it was delicious sitting there in the spring sunshine.  Tweed was nearing its source and was now only a trickling burn.  A lark was singing high up in the blue.  The air was like new wine.  The lambs were very young, for spring comes slowly up that way, and one tottering little fellow was found by Mhor, and carried rapturously to Jean.

“Take it; it’s just born,” he said.  “Jock, hold Peter tight in case he bites them.”

“Did you ever see anything quite so new?” Jean said as she stroked the little head, “and yet so independent?  Sheep are far before mortals.  Its eyes look so perplexed, Mhor.  It’s quite strange to the world and doesn’t know what to make of it.  That’s its mother over there.  Take it to her; she’s crying for it.”

David came up and stood looking gloomily at the lamb.  Perhaps he envied it being so young and careless and motor-less.

“Stark’s busy with the car,” he announced, rather needlessly, as the fact was apparent to all.  “I’m dashed if I know what’s the matter with the old bus....  Here’s that man again....”

Jean burst into helpless laughter as the wagonette again overtook them.  The driver flourished his whip and the horse broke into a canter—­it looked like derision.

There was a long silence—­then Jean said: 

“If it won’t go, it’s too big to move.  We shall have to train ivy on it and make it a feature of the landscape.”

“Or else,” said David, savagely and irreverently—­“or else hew it in pieces before the Lord.”

Stark got up and straightened himself, wiped his hands and his forehead, and came up to David.

“I’ve found out what’s wrong,” he said.  “She’ll manage to Moffat, but we’ll have to get her put right there.  It’s....”  He went into technical details incomprehensible to Jean.

They got back into the car and it sprang away as if suddenly endowed with new life.  In a trice they had passed the wagonette, leaving it in a whirl of scornful dust.  They ate the miles as a giant devours sheep.  They passed the Devil’s Beef Tub—­Jock would have liked to tarry there and investigate, but Jean dared not ask Stark to stop in case they could not start again—­and soon went sliding down the hill to Moffat.  Hot puffs of scented air rose from the valley, they had left the moorlands and the winds, and the town was holding out arms to welcome them.  They drove along the sunny, sleepy, midday High Street and stopped at a hotel.