‘Who is that lady?’ he inquired, when horse and rider had disappeared. ‘Yon’s Leddy Eliza Lamont,’ she replied, still examining him. ‘Does she live near here?’ ‘Ay; she bides at Morphie, away west by the river.’ ‘And how did she meet with her accident?’ ‘She was coming in by the field ahint the house, an’ the horse just coupet itsel’. She came in-by an’ tell’t me. She kens me fine.’ It struck Gilbert as strange that, in spite of Lady Eliza’s interest as she watched him over the burying-ground wall, she had not had the curiosity to ask his name, though they had spoken and he had done her a service. He looked down at the mud which her boot had transferred to his fingers. ‘Ye’ve filed your hands,’ observed Granny. ‘Come ben an’ I’ll gie ye a drappie water to them.’ He followed her and found himself in a small, dark kitchen. It was clean, and a great three-legged caldron which hung by a chain over the fire was making an aggressive bubbling. A white cat, marked with black and brown, slunk deceitfully out of its place by the hearth as they entered. The old woman took an earthenware bowl and filled it. When he had washed his hands, she held out a corner of her apron to him, and he dried them. ‘Sit down a whilie to the fire,’ she said, pushing forward the wooden chair that Lady Eliza had despised. ‘Thank you, I cannot,’ he replied. ‘I must be going, for it will soon be dark; but I should like to pay you another visit one day.’ ‘Haste ye back, then,’ she said, as he went out of the door. Gilbert turned as he stood on the side-path, and looked at the old woman. A question was in her face. ‘You’ll be the laird of Whanland?’ she inquired, rather loudly. He assented. ‘You’re a fine lad,’ said Granny Stirk, as she went back into the cottage. CHAPTER III FRIENDSHIP LADY ELIZA LAMONT splashed along the road and over the bridge; her heart was beating under the outlandish waistcoat, and behind her red face, so unsuggestive of emotion of any sort, a turmoil was going on in her brain. She had seen him at last. She breathed hard, and her mouth drew into a thin line as she passed Whanland, and saw the white walls glimmering through the beech-trees. There was a light in one of the upper windows, the first she had seen there for thirty years in the many times she had ridden past. He was so little like the picture her mind had imagined that she would scarcely have recognised him, she told herself. Yet still there was that in his look which forbade her to hate him unrestrainedly, though he represented all that had set her life awry. He was now her neighbour and it was likely they would often meet; indeed, sooner or later, civility would compel her to invite him to wait upon her. She gave the mare a smart blow with her riding-cane as they turned into the approach to Morphie House.