CHAPTER XVII. Of late it has truly been a time of startling events with me. One surprise has followed hard on the heels of another, and possibilities new to my horizon are looming before me, bidding fair to alter--and may I trust perfect?--my whole line of life. And yet I am not unduly excited or exercised in mind. I wonder is this because my drama is being acted on staging of God's own making, and amidst scenery painted by His own hand? I know how strongly we are all influenced by environment. A thunderstorm over the busy city, raging around crowded haunts and lighting up with its pointed fire all of man's handiwork, is to me appalling and menacing; in the country, among the echoing hills and sombre woods, it is grand and inspiring. When I think of it, it is not unlikely that a closer acquaintance with Nature and an insight into the marvellous laws which govern her have brought to me a keener sense of the true proportion of things. The pulsing sap in a February sprig of hawthorn is wonderful and mysterious, more wonderful far than Joe's acquaintance with Toledo or my meeting Désirée Stuart in Nithbank Wood. * * * * * Accompanied by Bang and Jip, I walked out to the station yesterday to meet Murray Monteith, and when I saw him step from the train to the platform I felt what Betty calls a 'ruggin'' at my heart, for very emphatically he appeared as a link binding me to a life which I know I must soon re-enter, and which I have lately ignored and well-nigh forgotten. Monteith is one of the aristocrats of our profession, a gentleman by breeding and nature from the crown of his head to the sole of his foot. Quiet, reserved, well knit and well groomed, he fills the eye and takes the heart wherever he goes, and as I shook hands with him I felt a secret pride in the knowledge that he is my partner. I welcomed him warmly to the strath of his forefathers, and assured him that if his knife and fork happened to be reversed at dinner, or if any one offered a left-hand shake, he must just count it an accident, as we had long ago ceased to remember the disreputable part his namesake played in pre-Bannockburn days. We had a twelve o'clock dinner: broth--not the kind everybody or anybody makes, but Betty's broth--boiled beef, with potatoes in their skins, followed by a jam-roll, of which Monteith had two liberal helpings. I told him that long ago it was usual to finish up a dinner with another plateful of broth, and he assured me that had he not partaken of the jam-roll he would gladly have revived the custom. I didn't forget to tell Betty of the appreciation, and I know it pleased her, for when we drew in our chairs for a smoke I heard her voice from the back-kitchen raised, as timmer as of old, in the lilting strains of 'The Farmer's Boy.'