ff, and he would strike it if he held south.
Heavy rain met him on the summit, and after struggling on for a time he
took shelter behind a broken dyke. The rain got worse and the moor was
lost in mist a quarter of a mile away, but he heard a faint, hoarse
sound in the haze below. He thought this was the roar of Ettrick or a
fall on a moorland burn that would lead him down.

When he began to feel cold he set off again, and the rain, which
thinned as he went down hill, stopped altogether when he reached the
bottom. A road ran beside the angry water, but the valley was deeply
sunk in the dark fells and their summits were hidden by drifting mist.
There was no hint of life in the dreary landscape except a moving patch
that looked like a flock of sheep, and a glance at the map showed that
his path led on across the waste to the south. It would be a long
march to Hawick, which was the town he meant to reach, particularly if
he went up the valley, until he found a road, but his director had
indicated a clachan as his stopping-place. He understood that a
clachan meant a hamlet, and the old fellow had said he would find rough
but sufficient accommodation in what he called a change-house. It
would be awkward if he lost the way, but this must be risked, and
crossing the river he struck into the hills.

He found a rough track, and presently the sky began to clear.
Pale-blue patches opened in the thinning clouds, and gleams of
sunshine, chased by shadow, touched the moor. Where they fell the
brown heath turned red and withered fern glowed fiery yellow. The
green road, cropped smooth by sheep and crossed by rills of water,
swung sharply up and down, but at length it began a steady descent, and
about four o'clock in the afternoon Foster stopped in the bottom of a
deep glen.

A few rushy fields occupied the hollow and a house stood in the shelter
of a thin fir wood. It had mullioned windows and a porch with pillars,
but looked old, and the walls were speckled with lichens. A garden
stretched about it, and looking in through the iron rails, Foster saw
gnarled fruit trees fringed with moss. Their branches cut against a
patch of saffron sky, and a faint warm glow touched the front of the
building. There was a low window at its nearer end and Foster saw a
woman sewing by the fire.

The house had a strangely homelike look after the barren moors, and
Foster, feeling tired and cold, longed to ask for shelter. Had it been
a fa