he liked and trusted Strickland. He would go far, but not far enough
to strain the tutor's patience. His father and mother and all about
Glenfernie knew his way and in a measure acquiesced. He had managed to
obtain for himself range. Young as he was, his indrawing, outpushing
force was considerable, and was on the way, Strickland thought, to
increase in power. The tutor had for this pupil a mixed feeling. The
one constant in it was interest. He was to him like a deep lake, clear
enough to see that there was something at the bottom that cast
conflicting lights and hints of shape. It might be a lump of gold, or
a coil of roots which would send up a water-lily, or it might be
something different. He had a feeling that the depths themselves
hardly knew. Or there might be two things of two natures down there in
the lake....

Strickland set Alice to translating a French fable, and Jamie to
reconsidering a neglected page of ancient history. Looking through the
west window, he saw that Alexander had taken his geometry out through
the great rent in the wall. Book and student perched beneath the
pine-tree, in a crook made by rock and brown root, overhanging the
autumn world. Strickland at his own desk dipped quill into ink-well
and continued a letter to a friend in England. The minutes went by.
From the courtyard came a subdued, cheerful household clack and
murmur, voices of men and maids, with once Mrs. Jardine's genial,
vigorous tones, and once the laird's deep bell note, calling to his
dogs. On the western side fell only the sough of the breeze in the
pine.

Jamie ceased the clocklike motion of his body to and fro over the
difficult lesson. "I never understood just what were the Erinnys,
sir?"