Maggy Macaur doing her housework, churning or clucking to her hens, was peacefully cheerful and seemed to ask no more of life than food and sleep and comfortable work which could be done without haste.

There were no signs of knowledge on her part or Jock's of the fact that they were surrounded by wonders of moorland and hillside colour and beauty.

Sunrise which leaped in delicate flames of dawn meant only that they must leave their bed; sunset which lighted the moorland world with splendour meant that a good night's sleep was coming.
Jock had heard from a roaming shepherd or so that the world was at war and that lads were being killed in their thousands.

One good man had said that the sons of the great gentry were being killed with the rest.
Jock did not say that he did not believe it and in fact expressed no opinion at all.

If he and Maggy gave credit to the story, they were little disturbed by any sense of its reality.