The pick of the best

Since Hector’s departure to hospital in Oban, poor Flora had gone off her food and been acutely miserable, but as I came out on to the steps in front of Ardnashiell before lunch one dry February morning, she did seem to have recovered her spirits to some extent. She and Heron were chasing each other madly around the lawn.

Perhaps it was that the two dogs sensed that spring was round the corner. For the time being, all the snow had disappeared from the low-lying ground, though it still glistened on the tops in the pale February sunshine. My uncle wandered out and gazed at the two dogs, which were gambolling like puppies, instead of mature and seasoned