“You’re going to stay to tea, aren’t you?  Would you mind coming with me just now to look at the puddock-stools?  It might be too dark after tea.  Here is your hat.”

“But I’m not staying to tea,” cried the unhappy owner of The Rigs.  Why, he asked himself had he not told them at once that he was their landlord?  A connection!  Fool that he was!  He would say it now—­“I only came—­”

“It was very nice of you to come,” said Jean soothingly.  “But, Mhor, don’t worry Mr. Reid.  Everybody hasn’t your passion for puddock-stools.”

“But you would like to see them,” Mhor assured him.  “I’m going to fill a bowl with chucky-stones and moss and stick the puddock-stools among them and make a fairy garden for Jean.  And if I can find any more I’ll make one for the Honourable; she is very kind about giving me chocolates.”

They were out of doors by this time, and Mhor was pointing out the glories of the garden.

“You see, we have a burn in our garden with a little bridge over it; almost no one else has a burn and a bridge of their very own.  There are minnows in it and all sorts of things—­water-beetles, you know. And here are my puddock-stools.”

When Mr. Reid came back from the garden Mhor had firm hold of his hand and was telling him a long story about a “mavis-bird” that the cat had caught and eaten.

“Tea’s ready,” he said, as they entered the room; “you can’t go away now, Mr. Reid.  See these cookies?  I went for them myself to Davidson the baker’s, and they were so hot and new-baked that the bag burst and they all fell out on the road.”

“Mhor!  You horrid little boy.”

“They’re none the worse, Jean.  I dusted them all with me useful little hanky, and the road wasn’t so very dirty.”

“All the same,” said Jean, “I think we’ll leave the cookies to you and Jock.  The other things are baked at home, Mr. Reid, and are quite safe.  Mhor, tell Jock tea’s in, and wash your hands.”

So Peter Reid found himself, like Balaam, remaining to bless.  After all, why should he turn these people out of their home?  A few years (with care) was all the length of days promised to him, and it mattered little where he spent them.  Indeed, so little profitable did leisure seem to him that he cared little when the end came.  Mhor and his delight over a burn of his own, and a garden that grew red puddock-stools, had made up his mind for him.  He would never be the angel with the flaming sword who turned Mhor out of paradise.  He had not known that a boy could be such a pleasant person.  He had avoided children as he had avoided women, and now he found himself seated, the centre of interest, at a family tea-table, with Jean, anxiously making tea to his liking, while Mhor (with a well-soaped, shining face, but a high-water mark of dirt where the sponge had not reached) sat close beside him, and Jock, the big schoolboy, shyly handed him scones:  and Peter walked among the feet of the company, waiting for what he could get.