Beside her I noticed a little pile of books, one of which was a Bible.  Open on her lap was a paper, the United Free Church Monthly.  I noticed these details greedily, for I had to make up my mind on the part to play.

‘It’s a warm day, mistress,’ I said, my voice falling into the broad Lowland speech, for I had an instinct that she was not of the Highlands.

She laid aside her paper.  ’It is that, sir.  It is grand weather for the hairst, but here that’s no till the hinner end o’ September, and at the best it’s a bit scart o’ aits.’

‘Ay.  It’s a different thing down Annandale way,’ I said.

Her face lit up.  ‘Are ye from Dumfries, sir?’

‘Not just from Dumfries, but I know the Borders fine.’

‘Ye’ll no beat them,’ she cried.  ’Not that this is no a guid place and I’ve muckle to be thankfu’ for since John Sanderson—­that was ma man—­brought me here forty-seeven year syne come Martinmas.  But the aulder I get the mair I think o’ the bit whaur I was born.  It was twae miles from Wamphray on the Lockerbie road, but they tell me the place is noo just a rickle o’ stanes.’

’I was wondering, mistress, if I could get a cup of tea in the village.’

‘Ye’ll hae a cup wi’ me,’ she said.  ’It’s no often we see onybody frae the Borders hereaways.  The kettle’s just on the boil.’

She gave me tea and scones and butter, and black-currant jam, and treacle biscuits that melted in the mouth.  And as we ate we talked of many things—­chiefly of the war and of the wickedness of the world.

‘There’s nae lads left here,’ she said.  ‘They a’ joined the Camerons, and the feck o’ them fell at an awfu’ place called Lowse.  John and me never had no boys, jist the one lassie that’s married on Donald Frew, the Strontian carrier.  I used to vex mysel’ about it, but now I thank the Lord that in His mercy He spared me sorrow.  But I wad hae liked to have had one laddie fechtin’ for his country.  I whiles wish I was a Catholic and could pit up prayers for the sodgers that are deid.  It maun be a great consolation.’

I whipped out the Pilgrim’s Progress from my pocket.  ’That is the grand book for a time like this.’

‘Fine I ken it,’ she said.  ’I got it for a prize in the Sabbath School when I was a lassie.’

I turned the pages.  I read out a passage or two, and then I seemed struck with a sudden memory.

’This is a telegraph office, mistress.  Could I trouble you to send a telegram?  You see I’ve a cousin that’s a minister in Ross-shire at the Kyle, and him and me are great correspondents.  He was writing about something in the Pilgrim’s Progress and I think I’ll send him a telegram in answer.’

‘A letter would be cheaper,’ she said.

‘Ay, but I’m on holiday and I’ve no time for writing.’

She gave me a form, and I wrote: 

   Ochterlony.  Post Office, Kyle. —­Demas will be at his mine
   within the week.  Strive with him, lest I faint by the way.