Foster stood for a few moments and mused, for he sympathized with Pete.  He remembered the satisfaction with which he had seen the lights of a lonely inn or farmstead twinkle when he tramped, wet and tired, across the Scottish moors.  They were bleak and often forbidding, but had a charm one felt but could not analyze, with the half-lights that trembled across them and their subdued coloring.  In spite of some hardships, he had been happy in the misty, rain-swept land, but he knew it had been touched by the glamour of romance.  That was over.  He was on his probation in utilitarian Canada, and very much at a loss; but he meant to make good somehow and go forward, trusting in his luck.

“Well,” he said, “I’m hungry and we’ll get on.  I hope they won’t make us wait for supper, though they’ll no doubt call it dinner at a place like this.”

Five minutes afterwards he stamped the snow off his boots as he entered a glass-fronted veranda in front of the hotel.  It was comfortably furnished, warm, and occupied by three people.  A lady sat with some sewing at a table, and a very pretty girl, holding a cigarette case, leaned over the side of a basket chair, in which a man reclined.  Foster, who imagined he was an invalid by his slack pose, was passing on to the main door when the man moved.  As he turned to take a cigarette Foster saw his face.

“Lawrence!” he exclaimed.

“Jake!” said the other, and would have got up, but the girl put her hand restrainingly on his arm.

Foster stood still for a moment, overcome by surprise and satisfaction, but understanding what he saw.  The lady with the sewing was studying him, but he did not resent this and thought he would like her.  The girl divided her attention between him and his comrade, whom she restrained with a pretty air of authority.  She obviously knew who Foster was and felt curious, but meant to take care of Lawrence.  There was something in her protective manner that Foster found singularly charming.  Then Lawrence beckoned and held out his hand.

“I’m uncommonly glad to see you, Jake, but how did you get here?”

“Why aren’t you in California?”

They both laughed and Lawrence turned to the lady.

“This is my neglectful partner, as I dare say you have guessed.  Mrs. Stephen, of Victoria, Jake.”

She gave Foster her hand and he was next presented to Miss Lucy Stephen.  Then Lawrence indicated Pete, who waited, looking very big and muscular but quite at ease.

“Who’s this and where did you get him?  I’ll engage that he was born between Ettrick and Liddel.”

“He kens!” Peter remarked with a twinkle.  “My name’s no’ far frae Ettrick, sir.”

“My friend, Pete Scott,” said Foster.  “You have heard the ladies’ names, Pete, but this is my partner, Mr. Featherstone, from the Garth.”

Pete lifted his hand to his forehead and the movement had a touch of dignity.  “Your servant, all; an’ if ye’ll alloo it, Mr. Foster’s friends are mine.”