“You are very kind,” he said, brokenly; “but I didn’t mean to thrust the part of Good Samaritan on to you. I’m not fit to come to a decent house.” He looked down at his travel-stained clothes, and at the holes in his boots. “Did you mean to lie here all night?” said Macneillie. “No, I meant to get on as far as Callander and to pawn this mackintosh. I am better. I’ll push on now. Perhaps there may be a hospital.” “Well, there isn’t, as it happens,” said Macneillie, watching him attentively as he struggled to his feet; “and it’s two miles to Callander, and if you think I’m going to allow you to walk as far as that you’re much mistaken. I’m a very indifferent Good Samaritan, having no beast to set you on, but if you’ll try to come with me to the little village of Kilmahog which is not far off we can rest at a cottage I know of, have a cup of tea, and take the coach from the Trossachs which will pass there in about an hour. As for your scruples in coming home with me, you must just make away with them. My mother has often received me in quite as bad a plight years ago when I was struggling to get my foot on the ladder. We most of us have to go through it unless we happen to belong to an old professional family.” As he talked he had slipped his arm within Ralph’s, and was guiding him up the narrow path, which, after a steep climb landed them once more in the road. Without waiting for much response he went on, telling story after story of his own early days as an actor, and at length the tiny village of Kilmahog came into sight, and they paused before a little, low white cottage with a picturesque porch and tiny garden. The mistress of the house seemed delighted to see her visitor, and responded most hospitably to his request for a cup of tea while they waited for the coach. She took them into a parlour hung round with sacred pictures, and possessing a most curious bed made on a sort of shelf in a curtained recess. Ralph looked longingly at it as he sank into a chair, but Macneillie shook his head. “Yes, I see you want to be Mrs. Murdoch’s patient, but those ‘congealed beds,’ as I always call them, are not well-suited to a fever.” “And when did ye come hame, sir,” inquired the landlady, returning with the tea tray; “and hoo are ye likin’ your braw new hoose?” “I came home at the end of last week,” he replied; “and as for the house it’s to my mother’s liking and that’s all I care for. We hear the trains a trifle too plainly for my taste, but she likes that, says, you know, that they are a sort of link with me when I’m away.” “Ah, but Mrs. Macneillie she’s main prood o’ her beautiful rooms, but I’m thinkin’ it’s mair because it’s her son that’s made them a’ for her. She was in Kilmahog last month settlin’ the account for the milk, and she said to me that if a’ mithers were blessed with such a son as hers there’d be a hantle less sorrow in the warld. Those were her verra words, sir.”