So intent was the latter upon his employment that he heard neither horse
nor rider. He had some shells, a few bits of turf, and a double handful of
sand, and he was arranging these trifles upon the rough, unpainted boards
in a curious and intricate pattern. He was a tall man, with hair that was
more red than brown, and he was dressed in a shirt of dowlas, leather
breeches, and coarse plantation-made shoes and stockings.
"What are you doing?" asked Haward, after a moment's silent watching of
the busy fingers and intent countenance.
There was no start of awakened consciousness upon the other's part. "Why,"
he said, as if he had asked the question of himself, "with this sand I
have traced the shores of Loch-na-Keal. This turf is green Ulva, and this
is Gometra, and the shell is Little Colonsay. With this wet sand I have
moulded Ben Grieg, and this higher pile is Ben More. If I had but a sprig
of heather, now, or a pebble from the shore of Scridain!"
The voice, while harsh, was not disagreeably so, and neither the words nor
the manner of using them smacked of the rustic.
"And where are Loch-na-Keal and Ulva and Scridain?" demanded Haward.
"Somewhere in North Britain, I presume?"
The second question broke the spell. The man glanced over his shoulder,
saw that he was not alone, and with one sweep of his hand blotting loch
and island and mountain out of existence, rose to his feet, and opposed to
Haward's gaze a tall, muscular frame, high features slightly pockmarked,
and keen dark blue eyes.
"I was dreaming, and did not hear you," he said, civilly enough. "It's not
often that any one comes to the store at this time of day. What d' ye
lack?"
As he spoke he moved toward the doorway, through which showed shelves and
tables piled with the extraordinary variety of goods which were deemed
essential to the colonial trade. "Are you the storekeeper?" asked Haward,
keeping pace with the other's long stride.
"It's the name they call me by," answered the man curtly; then, as he
chanced to turn his eyes upon the landing, his tone changed, and a smile
irradiated his countenance. "Here comes a customer," he remarked, "that'll
make you bide your turn."
A boat, rowed by a young boy and carrying a woman, had slipped out of the
creek, and along the river bank to the steps of the landing. When they
were reached, the boy sat still, the oars resting across his knees, and
his face upturned to a palace beautiful of pearl and saffron cloud; but
the woman mounted the steps, and, crossing the boards, came up to the door
and the men beside it. Her dress was gray and unadorned, and she was young
and of a quiet loveliness.