Mary stirred the fire into a brighter blaze, and drawing Helmsley's armchair close to its warm glow, stood by him till he was comfortably seated--then she placed another chair opposite for Reay, and sat down herself on a low oaken settle between the two.
"This is the pleasantest time of the day just now,"-- she said--"And the best time for talking! I love the gloaming.

My father loved it too." "So did _my_ father!" and Reay's eyes softened as he bent them on the sparkling fire--"In winter evenings when the darkness fell down upon our wild Highland hills, he would come home to our shieling on the edge of the moor, shaking all the freshness of the wind and the scent of the dying heather out of his plaid as he threw it from his shoulders,--and he would toss fresh peat on the fire till it blazed red and golden, and he would lay his hand on my head and say to me: 'Come awa' bairnie! Now for a bogle story in the gloamin'!' Ah, those bogle stories! They are answerable for a good deal in my life! They made me want to write bogle stories myself!" "And _do_ you write them ?" asked Mary.
"Not exactly.

Though perhaps all human life is only a bogle tale! Invented to amuse the angels!" She smiled, and taking up a delicate piece of crochet lace, which she called her "spare time work," began to ply the glittering needle in and out fine intricacies of thread, her shapely hands gleaming like alabaster in the fire-light reflections.
"Well, now tell us your own bogle tale!" she said--"And David and I will play the angels!".