Merton, who was with him in the smoking-room, mentally absolved the Highland housemaids. If they had not swept up the tiny glittering metallic points on the carpet before, they had done so now. Only two or three caught his eye. Mr. Macrae, avid of news, accommodated himself in an arm-chair with newspapers of two or three days old, from which he had already sucked the heart by aid of his infernal machine. The Budes and Blake, with Miss Macrae (an Anglican), had set off to walk to the Catholic chapel, some four miles away, for crofting opinion was resolute against driving on the Lord's Day. Merton, self-denying and resolved, did not accompany his lady; he read a novel, wrote letters, and felt desolate. All was peace, all breathed of the Sabbath calm. 'Very odd there's no call from the machine,' said Mr. Macrae anxiously. 'It is Sunday,' said Merton. 'Still, they might send us something.' 'They scarcely favoured us last Sunday,' said Merton. 'No, and now I think of it, not at all on the Sunday before,' said Mr. Macrae. 'I dare say it is all right.' 'Would a thunder-storm further south derange it?' asked Merton, adding, 'There was a lot of summer lightning last night.' 'That might be it; these things have their tempers. But they are a great comfort. I can't think how we ever did without them,' said Mr. Macrae, as if these things were common in every cottage. 'Wonderful thing, science!' he added, in an original way, and Merton, who privately detested science, admitted that it was so. 'Shall we go to see the horses?' suggested Mr. Macrae, and they did go and stare, as is usual on Sunday in the country, at the hind-quarters of these noble animals. Merton strove to be as much interested as possible in Mr. Macrae's stories of his fleet American trotters. But his heart was otherwhere. 'They will soon be an extinct species,' said Mr. Macrae. 'The motor has come to stay.'