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offered her a Gaelic greeting and when, with barely a moment’s hesitation she returned it, his eyes shone with keen pleasure and he continued addressing her in the language which in her childhood had been her native tongue. The effect on her was as startling as if she had been given a welcome though unexpected caress but he spoke too fluently, catching her off-guard, and she wasn’t sure she perfectly understood what he was saying. Too sensitive to risk making a fool of herself by giving an inept reply she thought it safer to acknowledge his attempt to converse with her with no more than a regretful shake of her head accompanied by a rueful smile.
    â€˜My memory of it has gone from me,’ she admitted.
    He was anxious to test her further but the ringing of the doorbell demanded her attention and with a pout of feigned disappointment she escaped from the room. Afterwards she managed to convince herself that she was glad of the interruption, yet at the same time she was conscious of a sense of mixed shame and regret that she found it difficult to recall her native language. All evening the brief exchange with Ruari MacDonald persisted in her mind and when she returned to her bedroom that night she set herself to recall how much she still retained of her native tongue, testing her memory and surprising herself by the degree of her recall. Why, she needed only to practise it, she decided, and it would soon come back. She began to hum softly the tunes she’d learned at the winter ceilidhs and with the tunes came the words and with the words came the images of the singers and of the old crofts where the ceilidhs mostly took place. The notion came to her then to enquire if there was a Gaelic Society near enough for her to attend their meetings so as to renew her acquaintance with the language and with the Islands from which she had allowed the city to wean her.
    During the days that followed she and Ruari MacDonald had little contact, meeting and greeting each other casually only in the dining room when she was helping to serve meals or to clear away the tables. However on the eighth day following his arrival she was collecting the morning mail from the post box on the front door, ready to sort it and place it in the racks for the guests when she noticed that one of the envelopes bore no stamp. Wondering why the postman had not rung the doorbell to demand the appropriate fee she examined the envelope more keenly. With some surprise she saw that it was addressed to ‘Miss Kirsty MacLennan, ISLAY ’. That was all; no avenue, no street and no town. Since she herself rarely received letters she spent a few more moments conjecturing whether it was really meant for her and just who the sender might be. It must be for her, she decided. There was no one of that name at ISLAY except herself, nor had there been anyone named MacLennan for the past six weeks or more and he had been no ‘Miss’. Concluding that it was probably from a neighbour who was working for some charity and wished to enlist her help for some function she slid the envelope into the pocket of her apron with the intention of opening it when there were fewer demands on her time.
    It was not until after the mid-day meal when she had the kitchen to herself, Isabel having gone off to a whist drive, Mac to a billiard hall and Meggy not yet due to report for her spell of evening duty, that Kirsty had time to sit down and make herself a pot of tea. Taking the envelope from her pocket she again scrutinised the handwriting, seeking some clue as to the sender but she had no success. Probably a hired helper, she guessed, and reached into the table drawer for a knife to slit open the envelope. It contained a single sheet of ruled paper and immediately she began to read the wording she was thankful she was sitting down.
    â€˜ Dear Kirsty MacLennan,’ it began. ‘ After our little chat the
evening I arrived I am wishing to tell you I am of a mind