When he began to feel cold he set off again, and the rain, which thinned as he went down hill, stopped altogether when he reached the bottom.  A road ran beside the angry water, but the valley was deeply sunk in the dark fells and their summits were hidden by drifting mist.  There was no hint of life in the dreary landscape except a moving patch that looked like a flock of sheep, and a glance at the map showed that his path led on across the waste to the south.  It would be a long march to Hawick, which was the town he meant to reach, particularly if he went up the valley, until he found a road, but his director had indicated a clachan as his stopping-place.  He understood that a clachan meant a hamlet, and the old fellow had said he would find rough but sufficient accommodation in what he called a change-house.  It would be awkward if he lost the way, but this must be risked, and crossing the river he struck into the hills.

He found a rough track, and presently the sky began to clear.  Pale-blue patches opened in the thinning clouds, and gleams of sunshine, chased by shadow, touched the moor.  Where they fell the brown heath turned red and withered fern glowed fiery yellow.  The green road, cropped smooth by sheep and crossed by rills of water, swung sharply up and down, but at length it began a steady descent, and about four o’clock in the afternoon Foster stopped in the bottom of a deep glen.

A few rushy fields occupied the hollow and a house stood in the shelter of a thin fir wood.  It had mullioned windows and a porch with pillars, but looked old, and the walls were speckled with lichens.  A garden stretched about it, and looking in through the iron rails, Foster saw gnarled fruit trees fringed with moss.  Their branches cut against a patch of saffron sky, and a faint warm glow touched the front of the building.  There was a low window at its nearer end and Foster saw a woman sewing by the fire.

The house had a strangely homelike look after the barren moors, and Foster, feeling tired and cold, longed to ask for shelter.  Had it been a farm, he might have done so, but he thought it belonged to some country laird and resumed his march.  He never saw the house again, but remembered it now and then, as he had seen it with the fading light that shone through the old apple trees touching its lichened wall.

The road led upwards and he stopped for breath at the summit.  The glen was now shut in and the light going, but here and there in the distance a loch reflected a pale gleam.  A half-moon shone above the hills and the silver light got brighter as he went on.  The wind had fallen and the silence was emphasized by the faint splash of water.  After a time, he came down to lower ground where broken dykes divided straggling fields, but there was no sign of life until as he turned a corner an indistinct figure vanished among the dry fern in the shadow of a wall.  Foster thought this curious, particularly when he passed the spot and saw nobody there, but there was an opening in the dyke for the sheep to go through.