ve home to the time I return.
Especially,"--his eyes twinkled in the mischievous manner to which
exception had just been taken--"especially poetry! Don't mind my saying
so, do you?"

"Not a bit," returned Margot promptly, tossing her first stone into the
lake with a vehemence which held more than a suspicion of temper. "Of
course I never--one would never--_expect_ you to like it. It would be
the last thing one would expect--"

"Too fat?"

She blushed at that, and had the grace to look a trifle distressed.

"Oh, not that altogether. It's a `_Je ne sais quoi_,' don't you know.
One could tell at a glance that you were not a literary man."

The Chieftain chuckled, bent down to gather a handful of stones, and
raised a red smiling face to hers.

"Well, well, we can't all be geniuses, you know! One in a glen is about
as much as you can expect to meet in these hard times. But I can chuck
stones with the best of 'em. That one was a good dozen yards beyond
your last throw. Put your back into it, and see what you can do. It's
a capital way of letting off steam."

Margot was tempted to protest against the accusation, but reflection
prompted silence, since after all she _was_ cross, and there was no
denying it.

She took the little man's advice, and "let off steam" by the vigour and
determination with which she hurled pebbles into the lake, making them
skim along the surface in professional manner for an ever longer and
longer space before finally disappearing from sight.

The Chieftain cheered her on with example and precept, and, as usual,
irritation died a speedy death in the presence of his bright, cheery
personality. While they were still laughing and cheering each other on
to fresh exploits, a lad from the post office passed along the road, and
the Chieftain wheeled round to call out the usual question--

"Anything for me? Is the post in already?"

The lad shook his head. He was a red-headed sociable-looking creature
who seemed only too glad to enliven his walk by a chat _en route_. His
teeth showed in a cheerful smile as he replied--

"The post willna be here for an hour or mair. It's just a telegram!"

A telegram! It said much for the peaceful seclusion of the Glen that
the very sound of the word brought a chill of apprehension to the
listening ears. No one received telegrams at the Nag's Head. One and
all the visitors had sojourned thither with the aim of getting away as
far as possible from