be too dark after tea.
Here is your hat."

"But I'm not staying to tea," cried the unhappy owner of The Rigs. Why,
he asked himself had he not told them at once that he was their
landlord? A connection! Fool that he was! He would say it now--"I only
came--"

"It was very nice of you to come," said Jean soothingly. "But, Mhor,
don't worry Mr. Reid. Everybody hasn't your passion for puddock-stools."

"But you would like to see them," Mhor assured him. "I'm going to fill a
bowl with chucky-stones and moss and stick the puddock-stools among them
and make a fairy garden for Jean. And if I can find any more I'll make
one for the Honourable; she is very kind about giving me chocolates."

They were out of doors by this time, and Mhor was pointing out the
glories of the garden.

"You see, we have a burn in our garden with a little bridge over it;
almost no one else has a burn and a bridge of their very own. There are
minnows in it and all sorts of things--water-beetles, you know. _And
here are my puddock-stools._"

When Mr. Reid came back from the garden Mhor had firm hold of his hand
and was telling him a long story about a "mavis-bird" that the cat had
caught and eaten.

"Tea's ready," he said, as they entered the room; "you can't go away
now, Mr. Reid. See these cookies? I went for them myself to Davidson
the baker's, and they were so hot and new-baked that the bag burst and
they all fell out on the road."

"_Mhor_! You horrid little boy."

"They're none the worse, Jean. I dusted them all with me useful little
hanky, and the road wasn't so very dirty."

"All the same," said Jean, "I think we'll leave the cookies to you and
Jock. The other things are baked at home, Mr. Reid, and are quite safe.
Mhor, tell Jock tea's in, and wash your hands."

So Peter Reid found himself, like Balaam, remaining to bless. After all,
why should he turn these people out of their home? A few years (with
care) was all the length of days promised to him, and it mattered little
where he spent them. Indeed, so little profitable did leisure seem to
him that he cared little when the end came. Mhor and his delight over a
burn of his own, and a garden that grew red puddock-stools, had made up
his mind for him. He would never be the angel with the flaming sword who
turned Mhor out of paradise. He had not known that a boy could be such a
pleasant person. He had avoided children as he had avoided women, and
now he found himself seated, the centr