"Shags, my angel, you and I are going to be Dryads. Wet or fine we will live out-of-doors. My hopes are now fixed upon the carpenter; only I mustn't land poor Ted in too much expense over me. Otherwise I should wire to Glasgow for a flat-bottomed punt immediately. It's a pity we don't possess one." But when she interviewed Duncan a little later, she was reassured on that point, for he told her he knew a man who owned one and who would be glad to hire it to her for the season. Mr. Sturt was as good as his word. The carpenter appeared and in a couple of days had done all that was required to her chair. It was a happy moment when she was lifted upon it and wheeled out upon the lawn. The weather was perfect: still and warm with an occasional gentle breeze from the lake. Rowena lay still, inhaling the sweet air in a state of blissful content. Granny was delighted to see her there; and for three days from nine o'clock in the morning till nine at night, Rowena enjoyed life in her cushioned chair. On the third afternoon about half-past three, just at the drowsiest time in the whole of that summer's day, a stranger walked briskly up the drive and rang at the front door. Rowena was fast asleep; she had neither seen nor heard his approach. She was roused by Granny's gentle voice at her side. "If you please, mem, 'tis the laird himself—he hav' come over on a question about his shootin' at Tarlie Bottom. He was onawares any of the family were here, so maybe ye'll be answerin' him ye'self. It's wanting to know if it's let, he is." "Is he here, Granny?" Rowena asked, rousing herself. "He's waitin' i' the hoose." "Then ask him to come out here." In a few moments a tall dark-featured man was standing by Rowena's chair, looking down on her with pity and concern in his eyes. Rowena held out her hand and smiled in her radiant fashion. "I am an old crock, but I can talk if I can do nothing else. We do know each other, though it is many years since we met. May I welcome you back? You have been away a long time, have you not?" "I remember you well," was his prompt reply. "I only saw you once, but your eyes haunted me. I have never seen such joyous ones since; and they are still the same. What has happened to you, may I ask?" "A spill out riding." "But you're not alone here? Where's your brother?" "In India. I am carrying out my doctor's directions. I have no temptations in this quiet spot to evade them. Will you sit down?" He took the garden chair close to her. "I am sorry for you," he said with feeling in his tone, "I was a crock for eighteen months in hospital after 1915, so I know what bed is. I never left it for twelve solid months." "That is my time—a year—and then I hope I shall be cured." His whole face softened. "Ah," he said, "when you've suffered yourself, you can feel for others."