f. I have been riding up and down these
dreary hills for nearly five hours. You have dined?"

"There was a neck of mutton and a chicken. She said the neck of
mutton would keep hot best, so I took the chicken. I hope you like
lukewarm neck of mutton?"

"I'm hungry enough to eat anything;--not but what I had a first-rate
luncheon. What have you done all day?"

"Stone and Toddy," said Herriot.

"Stick to that. If anything can pull you through, Stone and Toddy
will. I lived upon them for two years."

"Stone and Toddy,--with a little tobacco, have been all my comfort.
I began, however, by sleeping for a few hours. Then I went upon the
mountains."

"Did you take a gun?"

"I took it out of the case, but it didn't come right, and so I left
it. A man came to me and said he was the keeper."

"He'd have put the gun right for you."

"I was too bashful for that. I persuaded him that I wanted to go out
alone and see what birds there were, and at last I induced him to
stay here with the old woman. He's to be at the Cottage at nine
to-morrow. I hope that is all right."

In the evening, as they smoked and drank whiskey and water,--probably
supposing that to be correct in Ayrshire,--they were led on by the
combined warmth of the spirit, the tobacco, and their friendship, to
talk about women. Frank, some month or six weeks since, in a moment
of soft confidence, had told his friend of his engagement with Lucy
Morris. Of Lizzie Eustace he had spoken only as of a cousin whose
interests were dear to him. Her engagement with Lord Fawn was known
to all London, and was, therefore, known to Arthur Herriot. Some
distant rumour, however, had reached him that the course of true-love
was not running quite smooth, and therefore on that subject he would
not speak, at any rate till Greystock should first mention it. "How
odd it is to find two women living all alone in a great house like
that," Frank had said.

"Because so few women have the means to live in large houses, unless
they live with fathers or husbands."

"The truth is," said Frank, "that women don't do well alone. There is
always a savour of misfortune,--or, at least, of melancholy,--about
a household which has no man to look after it. With us, generally,
old maids don't keep houses, and widows marry again. No doubt it
was an unconscious appreciation of this feeling which brought about
the burning of Indian widows. There is an unfitness in women for
solitude. A female Prometh