For two nights Mhor had sobbed himself to sleep openly, and Jock had lain awake and cried when everyone else was sleeping.
They scoured the country in the daytime, helped by David and Mr.Jowett and other interested friends, but all to no purpose.
"If I knew God had him I wouldn't mind," said Mhor, "but I keep seeing him in a trap watching for us to come and let him out.

Oh, Peter, _Peter_...." So Jean felt completely demoralised this January afternoon and sat in her most unbecoming dress, with the fire drearily, if economically, banked up with dross, hoping that no one would come near her.

And Mrs.
Duff-Whalley and her daughter arrived to call.
It was at once evident that Mrs.Duff-Whalley was on a very high horse indeed.

Her accent was at its most superior--not at all the accent she used on ordinary occasions--and her manner was an excellent imitation of that of a lady she had met at one of the neighbouring houses and greatly admired.

Her sharp eyes were all over the place, taking in Jean's poor little home-made frock, the shabby slippers, the dull fire, the depressed droop of her hostess's shoulders.
Jean was sincerely sorry to see her visitors.