The morning of departure came at last. Courage came with the dawn; with the first grey light that gave an outline to the Mattock Hill, lying there so quiet like a great beast in a park, its head stretched out on its forelegs and the curve of its back against the morning sky, watching over the sleeping howe and its kirn of folk, now yawning and raxing themselves for the chauve of another day; the sun rising out of the sea like a great red ball, his fingernails of light filtering over the dewy landscape, colouring the fields and the trees with his mellow touch, soft and rich against the livening sky above the Mattock, where the farming folk could see that he meant well for the day, with not a folded cloud on his frowning brow, but a bright smile that lit up the hay parks and the mantling green of the turnip shaws, wet with sparkling dew, and a breath of wind that swung gently on the corn stalks. Soon you would hear the knack of wooden cartwheels and the whistle of a horseman on the brae, the mewing of gulls over from the sea and the Myreloch, the croak of the hoodie crow and the crooning of pigeons deep in Lachbeg Woods.

Helen sat on her bed in the attic, scarcely able to contain herself, waiting for morning long before it came, bringing forth the day she was to leave her father's household, the day that would change the whole course of her so far innocent life. She fingered the letter in her bodice. Perhaps it had decided her in making up her mind. She could read it again now that it was light.

'Dearest,' she read, 'Your father is a savage heathen; to reason with such a man is out of the question. Your brothers and sisters are only half civilized and not fit to mix with decent people. You are an angel in hell and do not belong amongst them. Why do you stay in such a hole? Run away, dearest love, before it is too late. See what the rest of the world is like. By the time you read this I will be far away, as I said would happen. When I cannot have you I must be out of your reach forever. I shall be in Canada, seeking my fortune. I send my love as always and it breaks my heart to think that you can never be mine. Yours Always, With Kisses, Murdoch.'

She crumpled the letter in her hand and sighed deeply for what might have been. She would have to burn it before Craig or her mother got hold of it. She laid the letter in the empty grate and kindled it with a match, watching the flames turning it into a black whorl, then to flakes and ashes, until nothing was left of her affair with Murdoch the gamekeeper; and she still blamed her father for spoiling the one romance in her life.

She got up from the bed and made faces at herself in the mirror over the dressing-table. She had small heart for fun but some little devil prodded her to laugh at herself, to stick her tongue out in the mirror, to pug her pretty nose, to wiggle her fingers at her ears; then she sat down on the bed again, giggling at herself. What a little fool she was, but she had to put on a brave face for the day; more than likely she would need it before the morning was over. Her father would be bitter about her leaving, and she hoped her mother had told him of her intentions. She had got round her mother but her father might be difficult. But even though he refused to let her go she would run away. It made no difference now, her mind was made up, but she would rather have his blessing than his curses.

She pulled her little bandbox from under the bed and tried to dress herself from its limited contents. A straw hat, a skirt and blouse, black woollen stockings, shoes with buckles, bloomers and vest and petticoat, a shabby tweed checked coat and faded suede gloves. She looked a bit gawky in the mirror, especially with the straw hat, but her eyes were as bright and blue as the morning sky outside her window. She would wash in the big brown basin downstairs. Maybe one of her sisters would rinse her long black hair with cold water, before she took it under her hat and stuck in the pins.

Swifts and sand martins were darting over the garden, snapping an insect meal in the first heat of the sun. Out at the back she could hear the gobble of the bubblie-jock, the crowing of cocks, the cackle of the geese, even the grunt of the old sow, awaiting her breakfast from Rachael. But she wouldn't work today, not a stroke; she didn't care any more and she was too excited even to think of breakfast. She was surprised at her own eagerness to be away, at her own courage, and the thoughts seemed to tumble out of her mind like apples from a barrel. She should have run away years ago.

Helen took a last nervous look round her bedroom. God knows when she would be back; maybe not long, but she had no way of knowing. She would remember the wallpaper pattern with its strange flowers, the pictures on the wall, the brass knobs on the bed, the patchwork quilt she had helped her mother to make, the firescreen with its little coloured pictures of all the animals in The Jungle Book; the view of the garden from her storm window, rich with the smell of onions and flowers when she opened a sash. Downstairs she could hear the commotion in the kitchen. Her father had come in from the stable and the family were at breakfast. She closed the bedroom door and went down the stair with wobbly knees, a little handbag on her elbow, grasping the rail. The grandfather clock was striking eight in the passage, but it had never kept the time since it fell on grandma. The wag-at-the-wa' clock in the kitchen was more reliable if you wanted to catch a train at Leary Station. When she opened the passage door the air was rich with the smell of porridge and strong tea.

Her brothers and sisters were crowded round the table and they all looked up at her when she entered. Craig was at his brose and porter at the head of the table, nearest the fire, the youngest bairn on his knee, Little Janet, supping out of his bowl with a long wooden spoon. Like all the others she was barely weaned of her mother's milk when she knew the taste of porter and ale. Hamish, the eldest son, was at the top of the wooden deas, next his father, then Moira, Nora, Nancy and Kirsteen, seated round the table, and at the end nearest Helen was Riach, her crippled brother: Rachael seldom sat down to breakfast but snatched a morsel, standing in the middle of the floor, watching over the others, always on her feet; and maybe that was why she was as slim as any of her growing daughters, all nervous energy and never getting time to grow fat.

'So ye're leavin' us, quine,' Craig said, staring at his daughter in the passage door.

'Aye, I'm gaun tae the toon, Daw. The quine in the post office says I could get a job there in a fish-curer's hoose.'

'It's a wonder that I hinna heard o' this afore, quine; ye've been affa sleekit aboot it. What's wrang wi' yer life here? Ye get yer keep, don't ye? and a shillin' or twa tae spend. What mair wad ye hae? Wad ye like me tae feed ye wi' a spoon, like the bairn here?'

'No, Daw,' and Helen's lip quivered with her answer, tense and nervous under her father's stare.

'What ails ye than? Speak up when ye've got the chance.'

'It's nothing, Daw. It's juist that I want tae see ither folk; I'm tired o' bidin at hame and I'd like a change.'

'Is it the gamekeeper ye're after noo?' Craig asked his daughter. 'Is that what's annoyin' ye quine?'

'No, honestly, Daw, it's nae that.'

'Let the lassie go, Daw,' Rachael interposed, 'we'll manage withoot 'er, noo that the ithers are grown up. She canna bide here a' her days onywye; she's a woman noo, wi' a' her life in front o' her. We canna treat 'er like she was still a bairn. I've been thinkin' aboot it, Daw.'

Craig pushed his bowl aside, for he had just finished his brose, and he laid the bairn on the floor. 'Losh preserve's, woman,' says he, mockingly, looking at his wife, 'so ye've been thinkin', have ye? Weel weel, the wardle's surely comin' tae an end. And when did ye turn sae gentle? It's nae mony years since ye had the quine by the hair o' the heid, ruggin' 'er tae the fleer.'

Rachael said nothing to this and there was silence for a time, save for the clatter of plates and spoons and the stirring of tea. Craig was looking at his eldest daughter as if he had never seen her before, still standing by the passage door, a stranger almost in her own home; almost afraid to speak unless she was spoken to. 'Poor bitch,' he thought, 'I never thocht she had grown up sae fast.' He secretly felt like going over to her and taking her in his oxter; his ain quine, and he had been that sair trauchled bringing up the others he had almost forgotten that she was his ain flesh and bleed. Now that she was bent on leaving them he felt for her, now that she was a woman and going out to face the world alone, and God knows she was ill equipped for it.

'A' richt, quine,' he said at last, 'ye can go; but dinna come runnin' back here greetin' and say that the warld has ill used ye.'

'I wunna, Daw. I'll get a job. Ye'll see!'