“Say dogues,” whispered Marion, drawing out the long O. She was very careful herself to be as English as possible. It had always been her ambition, though the success was perhaps scarcely equal to the desire. She threaded her way through the woods with delicate steps, protesting that it was very damp and a very long way. It was a delightful way through narrow woodland paths, where the hawthorn, which in Scotland is neither called nor has much to do with May, was, still in the height of June, breathing fragrance over the copse, and where the wild rose-buds were beginning to peep upon the long branches that overhung the path. Now and then they shook a drop of moisture upon the passer by, for, needless to say, it had rained that morning, leaving little pools full of reflections in the hollows. Marion gave little jumps when a drop came upon her face, and went upon the tips of her toes past the damp places: but it was always “something to do.” Old Rankin’s cottage was in the depths of the wood that encircled Rosmore. He had been a gamekeeper before “his accident.” It was supposed in the peninsula that everybody must know about old Rankin’s accident, so that no further account was ever given. It was a red-roofed cottage, looking comfortable and cheerful among the grass, with a big ash tree in a plot of grass before the door, and honeysuckle covering it on the southern side where the sun came. In northern regions people are indifferent about the sun. It is a curious fact, but it is so. “Where the sun does not go the doctor must,” says the Italian who has almost too much; but the Scot turns his back upon it sturdily and does not mind. The sunshine caught only one corner of Rankin’s cottage, and no windows looked that way. It was buried deep in the greenness, adding itself a little ruddy reflection to brighten the atmosphere. In the room on the left side of the door Rankin himself lay upon his bed, with a large head and shoulders appearing out of the tartan rugs that covered the rest of his person. He had a head like an ancient prophet or bard, with a high bald forehead, and a long grey beard, and with supple long arms which seemed to reach to all the corners of the room. Naturally there was a fire burning, though the day was warm. The mistress of the house came trotting forward, and dusted two chairs with her apron for the visitors. “You’re kindly welcome,” she said, “Come ben, come ben. He’s aye weel pleased to see company.” The good woman did not require any introduction of the visitors; but this the groom, more formal, made haste to give. “It’s the young lady and the young--lad from the Hoose,” he said. The pause before his description of Archie was significant. In that coat which Sandy felt was not so good as his own, how was any one to recognise a gentleman? Sandy could not disguise his sentiments. He could not give a false designation even to his master’s son. “I am Miss Rowland,” said Marion, graciously, “of Rosmore.”