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making guesses at the quality of this foreign bride of their chieftain, the woman who was to bring them riches and hope for a better future. She sat stiffly on the ambling pony, and tried to gaze ahead at nothing in particular so that she should not see the speculative eyes turned on her.
    Beyond the rise the land dipped into a wide hollow. Sheltered on the windward side by tall pines, watered by a little burn, it lay bathed in sunlight, a natural haven on the bleak mountainside. Here a rough circle of simple turf huts, like large beehives, had been constructed, grouped in pairs, and close by shaggy cattle grazed on the soft hill grass.
    In one place a cooking pot bubbled on a fire burning in a raised stone hearth, in another dishes of cream lay ready for making cheese or butter, with the wooden churns beside them. Washing was spread on the grass to dry. And as the welcoming women led Hector and the menfolk into the hollow, the sound of singing filled it, and the whole place seemed alight with happiness.
    Once again Isobel had that overwhelming sense of unreality. She understood nothing that was said, no words of the songs, little of this foreign way of life. She was left at the end of that day with no more than a confused impression of the simple but joyous feasting that welcomed the chieftain and his bride.
    When Hector had helped her from her pony, he led her to a quiet place beside one of the huts where an old woman sat on a stool mending a plaid. She looked up as they came near, her face glowing, her very blue eyes bright with tears. She laid down her sewing and reached out gnarled hands. And to Isobel’s amazement Hector fell on his knees beside her and bent his head and the old woman leaned over to kiss his dark hair, murmuring soft endearments as he grasped her hand in both of his.
    After a time he sat back on his heels and looked up at Isobel, while the old woman continued to run one hand caressingly over his hair.
    ‘Isobel, I must make you known to my foster mother, Mairi MacLean.’
    He turned to the old woman and said something in his own language, and then took Isobel’s hand and laid it in that of the other woman. Instinctively she knelt too, and she felt the hand laid on her head and the murmured words of blessing.  
    When she looked up the old woman cupped her face in work-worn hands and gazed into it long and silently, as if reading what lay there. Isobel felt that her whole soul was laid bare. It frightened her, and she shivered a little; and yet she sensed kindness and understanding, as if she could find a friend there if she chose. But what use was a friend who could not even speak to her in her own language?
    The greetings and introductions over, Hector lingered to talk for a little longer and then led Isobel to where a rough seat had been prepared for her to one side of the hollow. The whole experience left her feeling an unaccustomed warmth towards her husband, now he had so openly exposed his emotions to her, and asked her to share a little of them. For the first time she almost liked him.
    ‘Did your mother die when you were young?’ she asked, as they crossed the trodden turf between the huts.
    ‘Indeed no,’ he replied, a little surprised. ‘She died last year, soon after my father. I think they could not live long apart.’
    ‘I thought that must be why you had a foster mother,’ she explained.
    The warmth began to fade as she saw that derisive smile pass briefly across his face. Clearly she had only succeeded in reminding him once more that she was a Lowlander, ignorant of Highland ways.
    ‘It is the custom,’ he told her. ‘The son of the chieftain is always fostered until he reaches twelve years or so with a woman of the clan. Thus he grows at one with his people, and her children are his brothers.’ He glanced across at the tall Highlander, who stood talking to a pretty black-haired girl. ‘Hugh there is the son of Mairi MacLean and Seumas her man, now dead.’
    Isobel’s sense