"So did _my_ father!" and Reay's eyes softened as he bent them on the sparkling fire--"In winter evenings when the darkness fell down upon our wild Highland hills, he would come home to our shieling on the edge of the moor, shaking all the freshness of the wind and the scent of the dying heather out of his plaid as he threw it from his shoulders,--and he would toss fresh peat on the fire till it blazed red and golden, and he would lay his hand on my head and say to me: 'Come awa' bairnie! Now for a bogle story in the gloamin'!' Ah, those bogle stories! They are answerable for a good deal in my life! They made me want to write bogle stories myself!" "And _do_ you write them?" asked Mary. "Not exactly. Though perhaps all human life is only a bogle tale! Invented to amuse the angels!" She smiled, and taking up a delicate piece of crochet lace, which she called her "spare time work," began to ply the glittering needle in and out fine intricacies of thread, her shapely hands gleaming like alabaster in the fire-light reflections. "Well, now tell us your own bogle tale!" she said--"And David and I will play the angels!" CHAPTER XV He watched her working for a few minutes before he spoke again. And shading his eyes with one hand from the red glow of the fire, David Helmsley watched them both. "Well, it's rather cool of me to take up your time talking about my own affairs,"--began Reay, at last--"But I've been pretty much by myself for a good while, and it's pleasant to have a chat with friendly people--man wasn't made to live alone, you know! In fact, neither man nor beast nor bird can stand it. Even a sea cormorant croaks to the wind!" Mary laughed. "But not for company's sake,"--she said--"It croaks when it's hungry." "Oh, I've often croaked for that reason!" and Reay pushed from his forehead a wayward tuft of hair which threatened to drop over his eye in a thick silvery brown curl--"But it's wonderful how little a fellow can live upon in the way of what is called food. I know all sorts of dodges wherewith to satisfy the greedy cravings of the vulgar part of me." Helmsley took his hand from his eyes, and fixed a keenly observant look upon the speaker. Mary said nothing, but her crochet needle moved more slowly. "You see," went on Reay, "I've always been rather fortunate in having had very little to eat." "You call it 'fortunate'?" queried Helmsley, abruptly.