The Grampian Quartet. Nan Shepherd

hersel, ye wadna think ony ither body had an ill ava.’ She wad be a sicht waur gin onything ailed her. Jist you tak yer ways awa’ an’ never heed them. Miss Josephine’ll dae grand wantin’ ye’ − it was only then that Martha had the grace to tell the truth.

      ‘It’s awfully good of you, Clem,’ she said, with an effort upon herself, ‘but it’s too late now. My friends are going off to Spain this week.’

      Dussie had written, in the very letter that Peter had handed to her that morning, ‘We’re frightfully sorry you can’t come, but since you can’t we’re to take our holiday at once. It suits Luke better. We’re going to Spain.’

      A couple of hours later Clem came running back with a plateful of scones. Clem was the most generous of mortals, with Drochety’s goods. Since Drochety’s ailing wife had died, a twelve-month after Clem had taken over the rule of the place, she had slowly and very securely gathered the power into her own hands. All the countryside knew that Peter had speired her more than once, but Clemmie had always an off-putting answer. She had been putting him off for fourteen years now. And meanwhile with a lavish hand she distributed Drochety’s belongings.

      Martha ought to have been grateful for the scones. Clemmie’s scones were a wonder and a treat. They melted in the mouth. But at sight of them Martha’s flared. anger flared. ‘How dare she pity me?’ she thought; and she pushed the plate savagely away.

      She persuaded herself that she did not care. Her mind seemed to have gone dead, as her fingers went on winter mornings. Too tired to cope with her thoughts, she turned away from them and left them in confusion. School took up again. She cycled to the Slack and cycled home, absorbed herself as best she could in the bairns she taught and in Aunt Josephine, and told herself that her emotions were exhausted and nothing would stir them any more.

      She had yet to reckon with Roy Rory Foubister.