“Have you really been away for thirty years?  Great-aunt Alison came to The Rigs first about thirty years ago.  Do you, by any chance, know our landlord in London?  Mr. Peter Reid is his name.”

“I know him.”

“He’s frightfully rich, they say.  I don’t suppose you know him well enough to ask him not to sell The Rigs?  It can’t make much difference to him, though it means so much to us.  Is he old, our landlord?”

“A man in his prime,” said Peter Reid.

“That’s pretty old, isn’t it?” said Jean—­“about sixty, I think.  Of course,” hastily, “sixty isn’t really old.  When I’m sixty—­if I’m spared—­I expect I shall feel myself good for another twenty years.”

“I thought I was,” said Peter Reid, “until I broke down.”

“Oh, but a rest at Priorsford will put you all right.”

Could he afford a holiday? she wondered.  Even temperance hotels were rather expensive when you hadn’t much money.  Would it be very rash and impulsive to ask him to stay at The Rigs?

“Are you comfortable at the Temperance?” she asked.  “Because if you don’t much care for hotels we would love to put you up here.  Mhor is apt to be noisy, but I’m sure he would try to be quiet when he knew that you needed a rest.”

“My dear young lady,” gasped Peter Reid.  “I’m afraid you are rash.  You know nothing of me.  I might be an impostor, a burglar—­”

Jean threw back her head and laughed.  “Do forgive me, but the thought of you with a jemmy and a dark lantern is so funny.”

“You don’t even know my name.”

“I don’t,” said Jean, “but does that matter?  You will tell it me when you want to.”

“My name is Reid, the same as your landlord.”

“Then,” said Jean, “are you a relative of his?”

“A connection.”  It was not what he meant to say, but he said it.

“How odd!” said Jean.  She was trying to remember if she had said anything unbecoming of one relative to another.  “Oh, here’s Jock and Mhor,” as two figures ran past the windows; “you must stay and have tea with us, Mr. Reid.”

“But I ought to be getting back to the hotel.  I had no intention of inflicting myself on you in this way.”  He rose to his feet and looked about for his hat.  “The fact is—­I must tell you—­I am——­”

The door burst open and Mhor appeared.  He had forgotten to remove his cap, or wipe his muddy boots, so eager was he to tell his news.

“Jean,” he shouted, oblivious in his excitement of the presence of a stranger—­“Jean, there are six red puddock-stools at the bottom of the garden—­bright red puddock-stools.”  He noticed Mr. Reid and, going up to him and looking earnestly into his face, he repeated, “Six!”

“Indeed,” said Peter Reid.

He had no acquaintance with boys, and felt extremely ill at ease, but Mhor, after studying him for a minute, was seized with a violent fancy for this new friend.