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He
wrote
to
the
London
book
-
shops
for
the
best
modern
books
,
and
I
began
to
read
them
.
I
felt
at
first
as
if
they
plunged
me
into
a
world
I
did
not
understand
,
and
many
of
them
I
could
not
endure
.
But
I
persevered
,
and
studied
them
as
I
had
studied
the
old
ones
,
and
in
time
I
began
to
feel
as
if
perhaps
they
were
true
.
My
chief
weariness
with
them
came
from
the
way
they
had
of
referring
to
the
things
I
was
so
intimate
with
as
though
they
were
only
the
unauthenticated
history
of
a
life
so
long
passed
by
that
it
could
no
longer
matter
to
any
one
.
So
often
the
greatest
hours
of
great
lives
were
treated
as
possible
legends
.
I
knew
why
men
had
died
or
were
killed
or
had
borne
black
horror
.
I
knew
because
I
had
read
old
books
and
manuscripts
and
had
heard
the
stories
which
had
come
down
through
centuries
by
word
of
mouth
,
passed
from
father
to
son
.
But
there
was
one
man
who
did
not
write
as
if
he
believed
the
world
had
begun
and
would
end
with
him
.
He
knew
he
was
only
one
,
and
part
of
all
the
rest
.
The
name
I
shall
give
him
is
Hector
MacNairn
.
He
was
a
Scotchman
,
but
he
had
lived
in
many
a
land
.
The
first
time
I
read
a
book
he
had
written
I
caught
my
breath
with
joy
,
again
and
again
.
I
knew
I
had
found
a
friend
,
even
though
there
was
no
likelihood
that
I
should
ever
see
his
face
.
He
was
a
great
and
famous
writer
,
and
all
the
world
honored
him
;
while
I
,
hidden
away
in
my
castle
on
a
rock
on
the
edge
of
Muircarrie
,
was
so
far
from
being
interesting
or
clever
that
even
in
my
grandest
evening
dress
and
tiara
of
jewels
I
was
as
insignificant
as
a
mouse
.
In
fact
,
I
always
felt
rather
silly
when
I
was
obliged
to
wear
my
diamonds
on
state
occasions
as
custom
sometimes
demanded
.
Mr
.
MacNairn
wrote
essays
and
poems
,
and
marvelous
stories
which
were
always
real
though
they
were
called
fiction
.
Wheresoever
his
story
was
placed
—
howsoever
remote
and
unknown
the
scene
—
it
was
a
real
place
,
and
the
people
who
lived
in
it
were
real
,
as
if
he
had
some
magic
power
to
call
up
human
things
to
breathe
and
live
and
set
one
’
s
heart
beating
.
I
read
everything
he
wrote
.
I
read
every
word
of
his
again
and
again
.
I
always
kept
some
book
of
his
near
enough
to
be
able
to
touch
it
with
my
hand
;
and
often
I
sat
by
the
fire
in
the
library
holding
one
open
on
my
lap
for
an
hour
or
more
,
only
because
it
meant
a
warm
,
close
companionship
.
It
seemed
at
those
times
as
if
he
sat
near
me
in
the
dim
glow
and
we
understood
each
other
’
s
thoughts
without
using
words
,
as
Wee
Brown
Elspeth
and
I
had
understood
—
only
this
was
a
deeper
thing
.
I
had
felt
near
him
in
this
way
for
several
years
,
and
every
year
he
had
grown
more
famous
,
when
it
happened
that
one
June
my
guardian
,
Sir
Ian
,
required
me
to
go
to
London
to
see
my
lawyers
and
sign
some
important
documents
connected
with
the
management
of
the
estate
.
I
was
to
go
to
his
house
to
spend
a
week
or
more
,
attend
a
Drawing
-
Room
,
and
show
myself
at
a
few
great
parties
in
a
proper
manner
,
this
being
considered
my
duty
toward
my
relatives
.
These
,
I
believe
,
were
secretly
afraid
that
if
I
were
never
seen
their
world
would
condemn
my
guardian
for
neglect
of
his
charge
,
or
would
decide
that
I
was
of
unsound
mind
and
intentionally
kept
hidden
away
at
Muircarrie
.
He
was
an
honorable
man
,
and
his
wife
was
a
well
-
meaning
woman
.
I
did
not
wish
to
do
them
an
injustice
,
so
I
paid
them
yearly
visits
and
tried
to
behave
as
they
wished
,
much
as
I
disliked
to
be
dressed
in
fine
frocks
and
to
wear
diamonds
on
my
little
head
and
round
my
thin
neck
.
It
was
an
odd
thing
that
this
time
I
found
I
did
not
dread
the
visit
to
London
as
much
as
I
usually
did
.
For
some
unknown
reason
I
became
conscious
that
I
was
not
really
reluctant
to
go
.
Usually
the
thought
of
the
days
before
me
made
me
restless
and
low
-
spirited
.
London
always
seemed
so
confused
and
crowded
,
and
made
me
feel
as
if
I
were
being
pushed
and
jostled
by
a
mob
always
making
a
tiresome
noise
.
But
this
time
I
felt
as
if
I
should
somehow
find
a
clear
place
to
stand
in
,
where
I
could
look
on
and
listen
without
being
bewildered
.
It
was
a
curious
feeling
;
I
could
not
help
noticing
and
wondering
about
it
.
I
knew
afterward
that
it
came
to
me
because
a
change
was
drawing
near
.
I
wish
so
much
that
I
could
tell
about
it
in
a
better
way
.
But
I
have
only
my
own
way
,
which
I
am
afraid
seems
very
like
a
school
-
girl
’
s
.
Jean
Braidfute
made
the
journey
with
me
,
as
she
always
did
,
and
it
was
like
every
other
journey
.
Only
one
incident
made
it
different
,
and
when
it
occurred
there
seemed
nothing
unusual
in
it
.
It
was
only
a
bit
of
sad
,
everyday
life
which
touched
me
.
There
is
nothing
new
in
seeing
a
poor
woman
in
deep
mourning
.
