Now Winsome Charteris was a hard-hearted young woman—­a fact that may not as yet have appeared; at least so she told herself.  She had come to the conclusion that she had been foolish to think at all of Ralph Peden, so she resolved to put him at once and altogether out of her mind, which, as every one knows, is quite a simple matter.  Yet during the morning she went three times into her little room to look at her housekeeping book, which by accident lay within the same band as Ralph Peden’s lost manuscripts.  First, she wanted to see how much she got for butter at Cairn Edward the Monday before last; then to discover what the price was on that very same day last year.  It is an interesting thing to follow the fluctuations of the produce market, especially when you churn the butter yourself.  The exact quotation of documents is a valuable thing to learn.  Nothing is so likely to grow upon one as a habit of inaccuracy.  This was what her grandmother was always telling her, and it behooved Winsome to improve.  Each time as she strapped the documents together she said, “And these go back to-day by Andra Kissock when he goes to school.”  Then she took another look, in order to assure herself that no forgeries had been introduced within the band while she was churning the butter.  They were still quite genuine.

Winsome went out to relieve Jess Kissock in the dairy, and as she went she communed with herself:  “It is right that I should send them back.  The verses may belong to somebody else—­somebody in Edinburgh—­and, besides, I know them by heart.”

A good memory is a fine thing.

The Kissocks lived in one of the Craig Ronald cot-houses.  Their father had in his time been one of the herds, and upon his death, many years ago, Walter Skirving had allowed the widow and children to remain in the house in which Andrew Kissock, senior, had died.  Mistress Kissock was a large-boned, soft-voiced woman, who had supplied what dash of tenderness there was in her daughters.  She had reared them according to good traditions, but as she said, when all her brood were talking at the same time, she alone quietly silent: 

“The Kissocks tak’ efter their faither, they’re great hands to talk—­a’ bena [except] An’ra’.”

Andrew was her youngest, a growing lump of a boy of twelve, who was exceeding silent in the house.  Every day Andra betook himself to school, along the side of Loch Grannoch, by the path which looked down on the cloud-flecked mirror of the loch.  Some days he got there, but very occasionally.

His mother had got him ready early this June morning.  He had brought in the kye for Jess.  He had helped Jock Gordon to carry water for Meg’s kitchen mysteries.  He had listened to a brisk conversation proceeding from the “room” where his very capable sister was engaged in getting the old people settled for the day.  All this was part of the ordinary routine.  As soon as the whole establishment knew that Walter Skirving was again at the window over the marshmallows, and his wife at her latest book, a sigh of satisfaction went up and the wheels of the day’s work revolved.  So this morning it came time for Andra to go to school all too soon.  Andra did not want to stay at home from school, but it was against the boy’s principle to appear glad to go to school, so Andra made it a point of honour to make a feint of wanting to stay every morning.