In the morning, Winsome had seen that every part of her farm machinery was going upon well-oiled wheels.  She had consulted her honorary factor, who, though a middle-aged man and a bachelor of long and honourable standing, enrolled himself openly and avowedly in the army of Winsome’s admirers.  He used to ask every day what additions had been made to the list of her conquests, and took much interest in the details of her costume.  This last she mostly devised for herself with taste which was really a gift natural to her, but which seemed nothing less than miraculous to the maidens and wives of a parish which had its dressmaking done according to the canons of an art which the Misses Crumbcloth, mantua-makers at the Dullarg village, had learned twenty-five years before, once for all.

Now it was afternoon, and Winsome was once more at the bake-board.  There were few things that Winsome liked better to do, and she daily tried the beauty of her complexion before the open fireplace, though her grandmother ineffectually suggested that Meg Kissock would do just as well.

While Winsome was rubbing her hands with dry meal, before beginning, she became conscious that some one was coming up the drive.  So she was not at all astonished when a loud knock in the stillness of the afternoon echoed through the empty house and far down the stone passages.

It was Ralph Peden who knocked, as indeed she did not need to tell herself.  She called, however, to Meg Kissock.

“Meg,” she said, “there is the young minister come to see my grandmother.  Go and show him into the parlour.”

Meg looked at her mistress.  Her reply was irrelevant.  “I was born on a Friday,” she said.

But notwithstanding she went, and received the young man.  She took him into the parlour, where he was set down among strange voluted foreign shells with a pink flush within the wide mouth of every one of them.  Here there was a scent of lavender and subtle essences in the air, and a great stillness.  While he sat waiting, he could hear afar off the sound of rippling water.  It struck a little chill over him that, after the letter he had sent, Winsome should not have come to greet him herself.  From this he argued the worst.  She might be offended, or—­still more fatal thought—­she and Meg might be laughing over it together.

A tall, slim girl entered the quiet parlour with a silent, catlike tread.  She was at his side before he knew it.  It was the girl whom he had met on his way to the Manse the first day of his arrival.  Jess’s experience as a maid to her ladyship has stood her in good stead.  She had a fineness of build which even the housework of a farm could not coarsen.  Besides, Winsome considered Jess delicate, and did not allow her to lift anything really heavy.  So it happened that when Ralph Peden came Jess was putting the fresh flowers in the great bowls of low relief chinaware—­roses from the garden and sprays of white hawthorn, which flowers late in Galloway, blue hyacinths and harebells massed together—­yellow marigolds and glorious scarlet poppies, of which Jess with her taste of the savage was passionately fond.  She had arranged some of these against a pale blue background of bunches of forget-me-nots, with an effect strangely striking in that cool, dusky room.