Mr.McCunn was no scholar and was sublimely unconscious of background.

He grew his flowers in his small garden-plot oblivious of their origin so long as they gave him the colour and scent he sought.

Scent, I say, for he appreciated more than the mere picturesque.

He had a passion for words and cadences, and would be haunted for weeks by a cunning phrase, savouring it as a connoisseur savours a vintage.

Wherefore long ago, when he could ill afford it, he had purchased the Edinburgh Stevenson.
They were the only large books on his shelves, for he had a liking for small volumes--things he could stuff into his pocket in that sudden journey which he loved to contemplate.
Only he had never taken it.