"I'll just slip down and get them," she announced, being by no means averse to a stroll along the lighted Highgate. It was certainly neither Argyle Street nor the Paisley Road, but it bore a far-off resemblance to those gay places, and for that Mrs. M'Cosh was thankful. There was a cinema, too, and that was a touch of home. Talking over Priorsford with Glasgow friends she would say, "It's no' juist whit I wud ca' the deid country--no juist paraffin-ile and glaury roads, ye ken. We hev gas an' plain-stanes an' a pictur hoose." When Mrs. M'Cosh left the room Jock returned to his books, and the Mhor, his imagination fermenting with the thought of bombs on Priorsford, retired to the window-seat to think out further damage. * * * * * Some hours later, when Jock and Mhor were fast asleep and David, his packing finished, was preparing to go to bed, Jean slipped into the room. She stood looking at the open trunk on the floor, at the shelves from which the books had been taken, at the empty boot cupboard. Two large tears rolled over her face, but she managed to say quite gaily, "December will soon be here." "In no time at all," said David. Jean was carrying a little book, which she now laid on the dressing-table, and, giving it a push in her brother's direction, "It's a _Daily Light_," she explained. David did not offer to look at the gift, which was the traditional Jardine gift to travellers, a custom descending from Great-aunt Alison. He stood a bit away and said, "All right." And Jean understood, and said nothing of what was in her heart. CHAPTER II "They have their exits and their entrances." _As You Like It_. The ten o'clock express from Euston to Scotland was tearing along on its daily journey. It was that barren hour in the afternoon when luncheon is over and forgotten, and tea is yet far distant, and most of the passengers were either asleep or listlessly trying to read light literature. Alone in a first-class carriage sat Bella Bathgate's lodger--Miss Pamela Reston. A dressing-bag and a fur-coat and a pile of books and magazines lay on the opposite seat, and the lodger sat writing busily. An envelope lay beside her addressed to THE LORD BIDBOROUGH, c/o KING, KING, & Co., BOMBAY. The letter ran: "DEAR BIDDY,--We have always agreed, you and I (forgive the abruptness of this beginning), that we would each live our own life. Your idea of living was to range over the world in search of sport, mine to amuse myself well, to shine, to be admired. You, I imagine from your letters (what a faithful correspondent you have been, Biddy, all your wandering life), are still finding zest in it: mine has palled. You will jump naturally to the brotherly conclusion that _I_ have palled--that I cease to amuse, that I find myself taking a second or even a third place, I who was always first; that, in short, I am a soured and disappointed woman.