Preparations

Every one said that it would rain. It was most depressing. You had
only to mention that you intended to spend your summer holiday in a
Highland glen, to set the torrent of warning in full flow. "It will
rain all the time.--It always rains in Scotland... You will be
soaked... You will be starved... You will feel as if you have gone
back to winter. You will miss all the summer in the South... You will
get rheumatism... You will be bored to death." On and on it went, each
newcomer adding volume to the chorus, until it became quite difficult to
remember that one was starting on a pleasure trip, and not on a perilous
Arctic exploration.

"Take plenty of wraps!" urged the wise ones. "Don't imagine that you
will be able to wear pretty white things, as you do at home. Take old
things that don't matter, for no one will see you, and you will never
want to wear them again. You will shiver round the fire in the
evenings. Be sure to take rugs. You won't have half enough blankets on
the bed. I was in the Highlands for a month two years ago, and we had
one fine day!"

"Well!" queried Margot of this last Job's comforter, "and what was
that like? Were you glad that you were there for that one day at
least?"

The speaker paused, and over her face there passed a wave of
illuminating recollection. She was a prosaic, middle-aged woman, but
for the moment she looked young,--young and ardent.