The tain-flying rooks had come true. Across the 



Children w id e desolate moors a grey wind soughed 



and the mournfully from the south-west, driving before 



Clan of it long slanting rains and sheets of drifting 



Peace, mist. I was glad to be out of the cold wet, 



and in the warm comfort of a room lit with 



a glowing peat-fire on which lay one or two 



spurtling logs of pine. 



A dear old woman rose at my entrance. I 

 could see she was of great age, because her 

 face was like a white parchment seamed with 

 a myriad wrinkles, and her hands were so sere 

 and thin that they were like wan leaves of 

 October. But she was fairly active, and her 

 eyes were clear and even, if the expression 

 may be used, with a certain quiet fire in their 

 core and her features were comely, with a 

 light on them as of serene peace. The old- 

 fashioned white mutch she wore enhanced this 

 general impression, and I remember smiling 

 to myself at the quaint conceit that old Mrs. 

 Logan was like a bed-spirit of ancient slumber 

 looking out from an opening of frilled white 

 curtains. 



It was pleasant to sit and watch her, as 

 with deft hands she prepared the tea and laid 

 on the table scones and butter and grey farrels 

 of oatcake, while, outside, the wet wind 

 moaned and every now and then a swirl of 



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