—“The Maiden of Morven” Back at the cottage—which was happily empty of all life save Herman—I made a fresh pot of tea and stirred up the ash on the hearth so that I could build another fire. The villagers would sneer at my weakness, but I was from a warmer clime and didn’t like the cold. This task took me a while because, unlike my unwanted guest, I hadn’t the knack of building a peat fire and had to use some coal to get the blaze started. I brought a cup with me and set it on the hearth, where I could sip as I battled with the stubborn, smoking fire. The smell of tea would hardly terrorize any uncanny visitors, but it subdued the worst of my nervousness with its familiar calming scent. As was bound to happen when wrestling two-handed with a job that needed at least three or maybe four, I upset the cup, which was unsteady on the uneven shell surface and spilled tea over the mosaic. The browned water spread quickly into the grout and in only a moment I found myself staring into a familiar face.
