Mr. MacNairn wrote essays and poems, and marvelous stories which were always real though they were called fiction.  Wheresoever his story was placed—­howsoever remote and unknown the scene—­it was a real place, and the people who lived in it were real, as if he had some magic power to call up human things to breathe and live and set one’s heart beating.  I read everything he wrote.  I read every word of his again and again.  I always kept some book of his near enough to be able to touch it with my hand; and often I sat by the fire in the library holding one open on my lap for an hour or more, only because it meant a warm, close companionship.  It seemed at those times as if he sat near me in the dim glow and we understood each other’s thoughts without using words, as Wee Brown Elspeth and I had understood—­only this was a deeper thing.

I had felt near him in this way for several years, and every year he had grown more famous, when it happened that one June my guardian, Sir Ian, required me to go to London to see my lawyers and sign some important documents connected with the management of the estate.  I was to go to his house to spend a week or more, attend a Drawing-Room, and show myself at a few great parties in a proper manner, this being considered my duty toward my relatives.  These, I believe, were secretly afraid that if I were never seen their world would condemn my guardian for neglect of his charge, or would decide that I was of unsound mind and intentionally kept hidden away at Muircarrie.  He was an honorable man, and his wife was a well-meaning woman.  I did not wish to do them an injustice, so I paid them yearly visits and tried to behave as they wished, much as I disliked to be dressed in fine frocks and to wear diamonds on my little head and round my thin neck.

It was an odd thing that this time I found I did not dread the visit to London as much as I usually did.  For some unknown reason I became conscious that I was not really reluctant to go.  Usually the thought of the days before me made me restless and low-spirited.  London always seemed so confused and crowded, and made me feel as if I were being pushed and jostled by a mob always making a tiresome noise.  But this time I felt as if I should somehow find a clear place to stand in, where I could look on and listen without being bewildered.  It was a curious feeling; I could not help noticing and wondering about it.

I knew afterward that it came to me because a change was drawing near.  I wish so much that I could tell about it in a better way.  But I have only my own way, which I am afraid seems very like a school-girl’s.

Jean Braidfute made the journey with me, as she always did, and it was like every other journey.  Only one incident made it different, and when it occurred there seemed nothing unusual in it.  It was only a bit of sad, everyday life which touched me.  There is nothing new in seeing a poor woman in deep mourning.