“And where are Loch-na-Keal and Ulva and Scridain?” demanded Haward.  “Somewhere in North Britain, I presume?”

The second question broke the spell.  The man glanced over his shoulder, saw that he was not alone, and with one sweep of his hand blotting loch and island and mountain out of existence, rose to his feet, and opposed to Haward’s gaze a tall, muscular frame, high features slightly pockmarked, and keen dark blue eyes.

“I was dreaming, and did not hear you,” he said, civilly enough.  “It’s not often that any one comes to the store at this time of day.  What d’ ye lack?”

As he spoke he moved toward the doorway, through which showed shelves and tables piled with the extraordinary variety of goods which were deemed essential to the colonial trade.  “Are you the storekeeper?” asked Haward, keeping pace with the other’s long stride.

“It’s the name they call me by,” answered the man curtly; then, as he chanced to turn his eyes upon the landing, his tone changed, and a smile irradiated his countenance.  “Here comes a customer,” he remarked, “that’ll make you bide your turn.”

A boat, rowed by a young boy and carrying a woman, had slipped out of the creek, and along the river bank to the steps of the landing.  When they were reached, the boy sat still, the oars resting across his knees, and his face upturned to a palace beautiful of pearl and saffron cloud; but the woman mounted the steps, and, crossing the boards, came up to the door and the men beside it.  Her dress was gray and unadorned, and she was young and of a quiet loveliness.

“Mistress Truelove Taberer,” said the storekeeper, “what can you choose, this May Day, that’s so fair as yourself?”

A pair of gray eyes were lifted for the sixth part of a second, and a voice that bad learned of the doves in the forest proceeded to rebuke the flatterer.  “Thee is idle in thy speech, Angus MacLean,” it declared.  “I am not fair; nor, if I were, should thee tell me of it.  Also, friend, it is idle and tendeth toward idolatry to speak of the first day of the fifth month as May Day.  My mother sent me for a paper of White-chapel needles, and two of manikin pins.  Has thee them in thy store of goods?”

“Come you in and look for yourself,” said the storekeeper.  “There’s woman’s gear enough, but it were easier for me to recount the names of all the children of Gillean-ni-Tuaidhe than to remember how you call the things you wear.”

So saying he entered the store.  The Quakeress followed, and Haward, tired of his own thoughts, and in the mood to be amused by trifles, trod in their footsteps.