WIDOW (_sits at spinning wheel_). It’s a queer notion the lassie will have got into her head. But I must humour her. And so she’s got a lad; and him and her have had a cast out. Poor lass! That’ll no’ last long. Blessings be on the dear heart of her! Any lad _my_ Màiri would keep company with must be a good lad, and any lad that once set his eyes on _my_ Màiri will no’ be wanting to lose her. The treasure!... It’s myself would be thankful to see her married decently and well.... I’m getting old, as her dear self would be saying. (_Sighs._) My time will no’ be long now. [_Enter Mrs Speedwell, attired in summer costume. Of middle age. Has come from Edinburgh and is staying at the village hotel, a mile distant from Balree Croft. Looks at the widow, who is spinning._] MRS S. (_aside_). What a charming picture! How Sandy would love to paint her! This is the very house for Sandy.... (_Aloud_) Good afternoon, Mrs Mackay (_smiles_)--you’re Mrs Mackay? WIDOW. Pardon me, mem, I wass busy, and wouldn’t be seeing you. Would you kindly sit down? MRS S. Thank you. (_Sits down._) WIDOW. Will you be feeling the draught? I’ll--I’ll shut the window. MRS S. (_aside_). A charming woman. (_Aloud._) No thank you. The air is so delicately fresh here. This is a delightful district, Mrs Mackay. WIDOW. It is very kind of you to be saying that. Balree has been my home for five and twenty years. When my man took me here I thought it the sweetest place on earth, next to my own glen, of course, and I’ll be content to end my days in his house, the Lord willing. MRS S. The Postmaster tells me you have rooms to let. My son is anxious to stay in the country, and I think your cottage will suit him. He doesn’t know I am here; the Postmaster wired to him yesterday saying he could get suitable rooms. My son wants to work in the Highlands during the summer and autumn. WIDOW. To work here? Well (_pause_), it’s not easy to find work here. What will his business be? MRS. S. Oh! he’s a painter. WIDOW. Indeet! Well, (_pause_) he will not get very much painting to do in this poor place, unless, maybe, of course, at the shooting lodge, but I’m afraid that it was painted in the spring. MRS S. (_laughing_). He’s not a house painter, but an artist. He paints pictures, you understand. WIDOW. Oh! yes, yes; I see, I see. I’ll understand.... I’ll be noticing some gentlemen drawing wonderful pictures here about in the summer, and some ladies also. And very clever they are, too. It’s a gift--yes, a great gift, just like making songs and playing the pipes.