“Did you watch me?” I asked.  “I could not help watching you a little, when you were so kind to the poor woman.  I was afraid you would see me and think me rude.”

“It was the far look in your face I watched,” he said.  “If you will come to tea under the big apple-tree I will tell you more about it.”

“Indeed I will come,” I answered.  “Now we must go and sit among the other people—­those who don’t care about Muircarrie at all.”

CHAPTER V

I went to tea under the big apple-tree.  It was very big and old and wonderful.  No wonder Mr. MacNairn and his mother loved it.  Its great branches spread out farther than I had ever seen the branches of an apple-tree spread before.  They were gnarled and knotted and beautiful with age.  Their shadows upon the grass were velvet, deep and soft.  Such a tree could only have lived its life in such a garden.  At least it seemed so to me.  The high, dim-colored walls, with their curious, low corner towers and the leafage of the wall fruits spread against their brick, inclosed it embracingly, as if they were there to take care of it and its beauty.  But the tree itself seemed to have grown there in all its dignified loveliness of shadow to take care of Mrs. MacNairn, who sat under it.  I felt as if it loved and was proud of her.

I have heard clever literary people speak of Mrs. MacNairn as a “survival of type.”  Sometimes clever people bewilder me by the terms they use, but I thought I understood what they meant in her case.  She was quite unlike the modern elderly woman, and yet she was not in the least old-fashioned or demodee.  She was only exquisitely distinct.

When she rose from her chair under the apple-tree boughs and came forward to meet me that afternoon, the first things which struck me were her height and slenderness and her light step.  Then I saw that her clear profile seemed cut out of ivory and that her head was a beautiful shape and was beautifully set.  Its every turn and movement was exquisite.  The mere fact that both her long, ivory hands enfolded mine thrilled me.  I wondered if it were possible that she could be unaware of her loveliness.  Beautiful people are thrilling to me, and Mrs. MacNairn has always seemed more so than any one else.  This is what her son once said of her: 

“She is not merely beautiful; she is Beauty—­Beauty’s very spirit moving about among us mortals; pure Beauty.”

She drew me to a chair under her tree, and we sat down together.  I felt as if she were glad that I had come.  The watching look I had seen in her son’s eyes was in hers also.  They watched me as we talked, and I found myself telling her about my home as I had found myself telling him.  He had evidently talked to her about it himself.  I had never met any one who thought of Muircarrie as I did, but it seemed as if they who were strangers were drawn by its wild, beautiful loneliness as I was.