Winsome’s light summer dress touched his hand and thrilled the lad to his remotest nerve centres.  He stood light-headed, taking in as only they twain looked over the loch with far-away eyes, that subtle fragrance, delicate and free, which like a garment clothed the maid of the Grannoch lochside.

“The water’s on the boil,” cried Meg Kissock, setting her ruddy shock of hair and blooming, amplified, buxom form above the knoll, wringing at the same time the suds from her hands, “an’ I canna lift it aff mysel’.”

Her mistress looked at her with a sudden suspicion.  Since when had Meg grown so feeble?

“We had better go down,” she said simply, turning to Ralph, who would have cheerfully assented had she suggested that they should together walk into the loch among the lily beds.  It was the “we” that overcame him.  His father had used the pronoun in quite a different sense.  “We will take the twenty-ninth chapter of second Chronicles this morning, Ralph—­what do we understand by this peculiar use of vav CONVERSIVE?”

But it was quite another thing when Winsome Charteris said simply, as though he had been her brother: 

“We had better go down!”

So they went down, taking the little stile at which Winsome had meditated over the remarks of Ralph Peden concerning the creation of Eve upon their way.  Meg Kissock led the van, and took the dyke vigorously without troubling the steps, her kirtle fitting her for such exercises.  Winsome came next, and Ralph stood aside to let her pass.  She sprang up the low steps light as a feather, rested her fingertips for an appreciable fraction of a second on the hand which he instinctively held out, and was over before he realized that anything had happened.  Yet it seemed that in that contact, light as a rose-leaf blown by the winds of late July against his cheek, his past life had been shorn clean away from all the future as with a sharp sword.

Ralph Peden had dutifully kissed his cousins Jemima, Kezia, and Kerenhappuch; but, on the whole, he had felt more pleasure when he had partaken of the excellent bannocks prepared for him by the fair hands of Kerenhappuch herself.  But this was wholly a new thing.  His breath came suddenly short.  He breathed rapidly as though to give his lungs more air.  The atmosphere seemed to have grown rarer and colder.  Indeed, it was a different world, and the blanket-washing itself was transferred to some deliciously homely outlying annex of paradise.

Yet it seemed the most natural thing in the world that he should be helping this girl, and he went forward with the greatest assurance to lift the black pot off the fire for her.  The keen, acrid swirls of wood-smoke blew into his eyes, and the rank steam of yellow home-made soap, manufactured with bracken ash for lye, rose to his nostrils.  Now, Ralph Peden was well made and strong.  Spare in body but accurately compacted, if he had ever struggled with anything more formidable than the folio hide-hound Calvins and Turretins on his father’s lower shelf in James’s Court, he had been no mean antagonist.