Macneillie laughed. “My mother was always prejudiced in my favour,” he said. “It’s the one subject you can’t trust her upon.” The good woman bustled off to make the tea, and the actor turned again to Ralph. “My mother is the best nurse in the world: she will soon have you well again.” “Why not let me stay here?” said Ralph. “It would give you less trouble. I shall only spoil your holiday, and perhaps bring the infection into your house.” “Oh, we have most of us been down with this plague already,” said Macneillie, cheerfully. “I know you covet that antique bed, but we must have you in a more airy room than this. Perhaps it will make you hesitate less if I tell you in strict confidence that the new house would never have been built at all if it had not been for you.” Then, seeing the bewilderment of his companion’s expression, “I’ll tell you just how it was some day, it’s too long a story now, for I hear the tea-things coming.” Ralph, utterly at a loss to see how Macneillie could be under any sort of obligation to him, was obliged to leave the riddle unsolved for the present. The tea revived him, and when the coach came into sight he almost thought he could have walked that last mile. A dreamy sense of relief began to steal over him as they drove on beside the river between the wooded hills and through the pretty environs of Callander, until at last they reached the main street itself, and turning sharply to the left began to climb a steep road. Here, nestling cosily under Callander crag, with fresh green woods behind it, stood the comfortable, squarely built stone house that the actor had planned for his mother. The coach paused at the iron gate, for it was out of the question that they should drive up the steep approach to the front door; indeed, it was not without difficulty that Ralph dragged himself up the pebbly incline; he was panting for breath by the time they reached the house, and it was with some anxiety that he looked up at the white-capped old lady who stood to greet them in the porch. “Mother,” said Macneillie, “this is my friend, Mr. Denmead. He has walked all the way from Forres, and is quite fagged out.” The keen, shrewd eyes of the Scotchwoman had perceived from a distance the sorry plight of the visitor, and she looked now not at his deplorable boots and shabby coat, but at the honest, dark eyes lifted to hers; she saw directly that they were full of dumb suffering. “I am glad to see any friend of my son’s,” she said, and there was something curiously comforting in the homely sound of the Scottish accent, but when she had shaken hands with her guest an almost motherly tenderness stole into her voice. She begged him to come in and rest, made minute inquiries as to the hour when the fever attacked him, and having left him installed on a sofa in the dining-room, drew her son into the hall. “Hugh,” she said, “the poor laddie is very ill. I will go and make a room ready for him, and you had better be fetching the doctor.”