boy, exactly like Elspeth, I'm told.'
'How nice. Well it seems to me you'll be a very busy woman all winter, Jean, girl, with two houses to run, and the children, not to speak of the worry of administrating Peter Reid's estate.'
'That's the real snag,' said Jean. 'I never feel myself anything but a steward, and I've got to worry much more than if it had been my own.'
'But what about the boys? I thought you divided it up.'
'I tried to. I wanted us all to share and share alike. But the lawyer didn't approve, and when he said Peter Reid wouldn't have approved, I had to give in. Of course they each got so much; quite a lot really. Davy and Jock have got theirs--Gervase gets his when he's twenty-one--Davy needs his, for he doesn't make much at the Bar, and he goes out a lot and entertains.'
'And likes everything of the best,' Pamela added. 'Jock's in an office, isn't he?'
'Yes,' Jean laughed. 'He's supposed to be learning something of finance, but I'm afraid his heart's not in it. Give him birds and beasts and the open air. Natural history is his craze. Oh, Pam, there's Miss Hutton. I must speak to her.'
Jean flew on, and when Pamela made up on her, she was saying to her old friend: 'I hardly dared hope you'd be staying at home this winter. You generally go away, don't you?'
'Generally, but last winter disheartened me. It was really worse weather in the Riviera than it was in Priorsford. It seems silly to leave one's own fireside and friends, brave the channel, and bore oneself with strangers, all for the sake of sunshine which often isn't forthcoming. So this year I thought I'd risk a winter at home.' Miss Hutton turned as Pamela came up, remarking: 'Lady Bidborough looks well.'
'Oh, don't, Miss Janet,' Jean protested. 'I've been Jean to you all my life and I won't be anything else. Tell me, how is every one?'
'More or less well, I think. The Miss Watsons are not so clever on their legs, but their tongues are as nimble as ever: they are still the town-criers!'
'And Mrs. Duff-Whalley,' said Jean: 'what of her?'
'That awful woman!' said Pamela. 'One would almost need to barricade oneself against her! Snubbing has no effect. She's worn down every one else, and I know she'll wear me down in time.'
'Oh, I know,' said Miss Hutton, 'but I'm not sure that Mrs. Duff-Whalley isn't good for us. She hunts us round and gives us something to talk about. Life in Priorsford would be much duller without her.'
'I can't agree,' Pamela declared. 'If she were clever or amusing or even wicked, but she's only the worst sort of climber. I'm sorry for the daughter: she has a hunted look. . . . Where has Jean gone now?'
Jean had noticed the Miss Watsons, two small, very voluble elderly ladies, hanging round, obviously in two minds whether to stop or walk on. When Jean called to them they started with well-simulated surprise.
'Fancy! Lady Bidborough! You here! Who would have thought it,' they exclaimed in unison.
Jean knew that the two ladies were probably primed with every detail of her coming to Priorsford, the why and wherefore of it, The Neuk, the secretary, the maids--but she smiled at them and said:
'My husband has had to take a sick friend for a voyage, and I've come with the children to spend the winter in Priorsford. You must come and see us.'
The Miss Watsons beamed and murmured: 'Oh, I'm sure. How kind: very pleased indeed: how nice,' while Jean ran back, rather conscience-stricken, to her sister-in-law.
'Pam, dear, I am so sorry to keep you waiting, but I had to shake hands with the Miss Watsons.'
'Jean,' Pamela said solemnly, as they went round to get the car, 'before you know where you are you'll be in a vortex.'
'I know; Biddy said so too. Somehow, I seem to collect people; I suppose because I like them and am interested in them. I'm terribly sorry, Pam, but I'm afraid I could never be exclusive.'
Pamela laughed as she kissed her sister-in-law.
'You like,' she said, 'to live in a house by the high road and be a friend to man--and what's more you'll always manage it!'
CHAPTER VI
'. . . with his satchel and shining morning face, creeping like snail unwillingly to school.'
As You Like It.
Two days after their arrival in Priorsford Peter and Alison made their first acquaintance with school.
They came down to breakfast looking rather over-awed, and started on their porridge in silence, but Peter, who was never quiet long, began as if continuing a recent conversation:
'Of course it isn't a real school or Alison couldn't go to it; I'm going to a real school when I'm nine! this is mostly girls.'
Alison looked anxiously at her mother as she asked:
'What'll they do when they find I don't know anything?'
'Why, darling, they don't expect you to know anything: you're going there to learn.'
'She can't even say her alphabet,' said Peter, and added boastfully, 'I can say it backwards.'
'He can say it backwards,' echoed Alison dismally.
'It won't do him much good,' her mother assured her. 'They've got new ways of teaching, and I don't know that they pay much attention to the alphabet now. I know children aren't taught as we were taught: a b ab, s o so. You'll be able to tell me about the new ways.'
'Mummy,' Peter said, dealing with an egg, 'what's the teacher like?'
'There are two teachers. Miss Main has been keeping school since ever I knew her, and her hair is quite white, and she's very wise. She's taught more boys and girls than she can remember, but I don't expect any of them have forgotten Miss Main. Although she's so clever she's very patient and won't expect too much from little girls who are only five. As a matter of fact, you'll probably be taught by Miss Callard, who helps Miss Main. She is so young that I'm sure she hasn't forgotten her first day at school, and her face is round and pink and sweet. Somehow, she made me think of nice things to eat, or is it that her name recalls "butter-scotch"? Anyway, I know you'll like her. . . . There are twelve girls and three boys at school just now, beginning at five and ending at ten. I saw them all running about in the garden yesterday. They get out at eleven for ten minutes, and morning school finishes at a quarter to one. Elsie will fetch you home and you won't go back in the afternoon. . . . Run up now, and wash your hands and get your coats on. I'll take you myself this morning, and you'll be able to show Elsie the way to-morrow.'
It was a fine morning, with a touch of frost in the air: mist lay in the valleys, but the hill tops were sharply clear against the pale blue of the sky. The trees in their burning autumn beauty were reflected in Tweed's quiet waters.
'Look,' said Jean, laying a hand on Peter's shoulder, 'aren't these peaks beautiful, piercing up behind the roundbacked hills? They're called the Shielgreen Kips, and some day we'll go there, perhaps when Jock comes, and Mhor: they
