The Tender Glory by Jean S. Macleod

the trees. Here and there, in the wooded approaches to Calders, a fir had come down, lying aslant in the dense green twilight of the avenue leading to the house, and long before she came to the clachan she could hear the roar of the bum.
    The little village houses huddled together in the early morning light, their shutters closed against the storm, their bedraggled gardens squelchy with rain. Everything dripped and she seemed to be the only living soul abroad at this early hour. Belatedly a cock began to crow.
    Feeling curiously alone, she set the van towards the headland. She would go that way and deliver the milk at the Lodge on her return journey.
    The wind met her with demoniacal fury when she left the shelter of the hills, yet now that the rain had slacked off a little she could almost enjoy it. Winding down her window, she listened to the pounding of the surf and the harsh cry of the gulls, feeling an odd excitement stirring in her veins. The rush of wind and the deeply resonant thunder of wave upon wave fretting the headland from end to end was like some wild concerto played by nature in the splendid isolation of the dawn. She found herself listening to it and taking a sort of harsh comfort from it. Music was everywhere. She hadn’t left it behind in the busy throng of London any more than she had taken it with her when she had left Craigie Hill.
    When the white column of the lighthouse rose starkly before her it seemed only natural that she should be going there.
    The storm had taken its toll at Sterne, like everywhere else. A section of the cliff face had crumbled and part of the wooden fencing was down. The white gate lay open, swinging on its hinges, while a huddle of sheep pressed close to the inside wall. They had strayed off the moor, seeking the nearest shelter they could find.
    Alison got down from the van, realising that she couldn’t very well leave Huntley Daviot’s milk at the gate. He had apparently forgotten all about the box he had mentioned or else it had been blown away. She would have to walk up to the Light, after all.
    She put the bottle on the step, eyed by the sheltering ewes. Then, on an impulse, she knocked on the door. It was opened immediately.
    “I—thought this might get broken.” She held out the bottle rather lamely. “I’m sorry if I’ve disturbed you, but the ewes might have knocked it off the step.”
    Huntley looked at her for a moment without answering.
    “How did you make it?” he asked, glancing towards the
    parked van. “The roads are all but impassable, I should imagine.”
    “I managed,” she told him, trying not to look beyond him to the bright fire burning in a wide grate. After all, he had accused her once before of curiosity. “It isn’t too bad, once you make a start.”
    “On a day like this you could have left my milk at the Lodge,” he reminded her.
    “I suppose I could,” she admitted, “but it’s my job to see that it gets here. So long as I can deliver it, I will. You forgot the box,” she pointed out.
    “I suppose I didn’t expect you,” he said.
    He had been out earlier, by the look of him. He still wore his oilskin jacket and waders and a sou’wester hung on a hook on the wall behind him, dripping on the floor. Yet what she could see of the big, warm room looked comfortable enough. There were deep leather chairs on either side of the fireplace and a table was spread with a checked cloth. The pungent aroma of coffee hung in the air, making her feel hungry. Almost reluctantly she turned to go.
    “I don’t suppose this wind can go on blowing for ever,” she remarked. “It must stop some time.”
    He watched her to the gate, where she had to struggle with the latch before she could fasten it securely, but eventually she got in behind the wheel and pressed the starter.
    Nothing happened. She tried twice and then again, but the engine remained silent beneath her touch. Huntley was still standing at the door, watching. She jabbed at the