Beyond the shelter of the trees the moor was a battle-ground of gusts which swept the puddles into spindrift and gave to the stagnant bog-pools the appearance of running water.

The wind was behind the travellers, and Mrs.Morran, like a full-rigged ship, was hustled before it, so that Dickson, who had linked arms with her, was sometimes compelled to trot.
"However will you get home, mistress ?" he murmured anxiously.
"Fine.

The wind will fa' at the darkenin'.

This'll be a sair time for ships at sea." Not a soul was about, so they breasted the ascent of the station road and turned down the grassy bypath to the Laverfoot herd's.

The herd's wife saw them from afar and was at the door to receive them.
"Megsty! Phemie Morran!" she shrilled.