Paisley's temper cooled down after walking about… well, she didn't know how many miles she walked, but it felt like five. "Och, crivens. I suspect he'll be around, and I'll have to see him, and maybe even talk to him. Crivens, why couldn't I just keep my mouth closed like a proper young lady?" But a small part of her (not very small) was very pleased with his dumbfounded expression. "I expect he'll be boiling mad at me. Och, well. At least the sheep liked me."

It presently came to her attention that while she had been talking to herself, a small house had become visible on the next hill. It was quaint and rustic, very simply trimmed, and the shrubs and "garden" (if you could call it that) were spilling over everywhere. There was a goat standing in front of the door, munching on a piece of what might have been shrub, garden, or wool underwear. It looked suspiciously like the third. Several sheep milled about, filtering in and out of the open gate to a grazing pasture. A few were having their tea, eating something lumpy and orange that looked like a carrot pawed up from the cleared part of the garden.

In a word, the small farm was chaos.

And Paisley couldn't stand chaos.

She went through the gate, carefully closed it behind her, marched right past the sheep, shoved the goat aside, and knocked loudly on the door. When she didn't receive an answer she tried again. "Eh? Eh? What? Who's there?"

"Uncle Harold? It's your niece, Paisley."

"Go 'way! Haven't got a niece!"

Paisley stared at the still closed door in shock. "Yes, you have! On your sister Martha's side!"

There was a pause, then a mumbled, "…Oh… that's right… I do…"

"Uncle Harold, don't you think you should open the door?"

"Oh, right, right."

The door swung inwards, revealing a tall, burly, white-haired man in tweeds, blinking in the light. Paisley stuck out her hand. "Uncle Harold, it's wonderful to finally meet you."

He stared at the proffered hand, scratching his back. "Nice to meet you, too… er, Plaid."

"Uncle Harold, my name's Paisley."

"Knew it was some kind of pattern."

"I don't suppose you knew that your sheep and goat are roaming around, did you?"

"What?" He looked around her at the mess. "Oh. Look at that."

"Are they allowed to go around like that?"

"Nope."

"Should we gather them into the grazing pen?"

"I'm surprised you haven't done that already."

Paisley stared at her Uncle, who leaned against the doorframe lazily. "Well, I… I'll just set my bags down and do that right now."

"Good idea."

Paisley herded the sheep expertly in the strange way shepherds and shepherdesses have done for centuries, carefully nudging here and softly speaking there, until the sheep were all in the grazing pen, chomping happily upon grass and other things. She was about to turn back proudly to her uncle, when she noticed that the goat was still there. Instead of allowing himself to be herded, the goat had simply stepped off to the side, out of the way. Now he was chewing lazily on a wet, grey thing that was definitely a wool sock.

Paisley pushed up her sleeves, groaning inwardly. Goats like this one were hard to herd. As her dear mother had always said, "They're just like ship … Except… they've got brains. And a verra hard head, ye ken?" Paisley ken alright, and that's what worried her. She didn't want to end up on the ground, in the mud, in front of her uncle, just because of one clever and hard-headed billy-goat.

"Right, you," She muttered to the goat as she approached it. "You don't give me any trouble, and I won't give you any trouble. And believe ye me, Ah'll give ye the trouble o' yer life."

The billy-goat lazily ran at her, head down, sock still in its mouth. Paisley nimbly side stepped, and it trotted on by. It lifted its head, blinking and looking around for a figure on the ground. Paisley smirked. Ha. He wouldn't find her in the mud. Not today, anyways.

A fairly long piece of rope was hanging on a scraggly bush next to her, and Paisley casually picked it up behind her back, tying a simple noose. The goat turned around and saw her. Paisley smiled winningly. "That's right. Give it a go— I dare ye."

The goat seemed to think about her challenge, but ultimately his instinct took over. He charged at her, and she was ready. Side stepping once again, she held out the noose, which the billy-goat charge right into. Before he could do anything else, she tightened the knot so that the loop wouldn't come off.

The billy-goat stopped, trying to figure out what exactly had happened. He felt the tug on his neck and knew he was beaten. "Come on, then. Into the pen with the others. Mind you don't eat the very wool off their back, you greedy beast."

The goat strained on the rope, trying to pull away, but Paisley pulled harder. "Oh, no you don't."

She managed to pull and push him into the pen, where he promptly began eating grass. "See?" Paisley said, wiping a small bead of sweat from her forehead. "Much happier in here with real food, aren't you?"

The billy-goat raised his head, his mouth full of grass. "Maaa-aaa."

She smiled. "Oh, go on, ye." Looking backwards at the goat, she trudged back to the front door. "I think that's all taken care of, Uncle—." She stopped.

The door was closed again. "Uncle Harold!"

"Eh? Who's that?"

"Uncle Harold!"

The door opened and Uncle Harold squinted at her. "Oh, right. Hello again, Polka."

"It's Paisley, Uncle."

"Knew it was a pattern."

"Uncle, the sheep and goats are in the grazing pen."

"Good. That means you can milk the cow."

"Cow? You only have one?"

"There's only one of me, and I don't drink a lot of milk."

"All right. Where are the bucket and the barn?"

"Bucket?"

"To catch the milk in."

"Oh, I just use a jug."

"A jug?"

"I just said that, didn't I? Hang on a moment and I'll go get it." He disappeared inside the house and the door almost swung shut, but Paisley stuck her boot in the frame, keeping it open. She was afraid if the door closed, he'd forget about her again.

He came back with a chipped, brown, earthen-ware pitcher that smelled awful. "Here it is. I don't have a stool so you'll just have to squat."

Paisley held back blush at his interesting choice of words. "Alright, I'll be able to manage—."

He cut her off, saying, "Then I want you to feed the cow and her calf. Feed the chickens; get their eggs; and muck out the cow's stall. I'll see you in a bit." He reached inside to a hidden coat rack, putting a battered cap on his head.

Paisley watched him make his way across the yard. "Wait a minute. Where are you going?"

Without turning around he answered her. "To The Apple Tree pub."

"How long will you be gone?" she called.

"Several hours, I expect." He was out the gate and closing it.

"Several hours? Whatever for?"

He finally turned, sighing as if he was explaining a simple thing to a simple child. "Because there're several miles between here and dere. And there're also several miles between me first pint and me finishing one. See you tonight, Periwinkle."

Paisley watched him in shock, standing there on the doorstep, holding a sad looking pitcher.

He disappeared over the crest of a hill, and she shook her head. "I'd best be getting down to the job. Er, jobs."

xxxXXXxxx

Paisley finally sat down in a creaky chair that sounded like it was going to break any moment. She sighed tiredly. "Well, finally done." She glanced outside groaning. "It's a long time past sun-down too."

In addition to the tasks her uncle had given her, she had, upon entering the small hovel, discovered that it was an absolute mess. Being incredibly tidy as she was, she hadn't rested until everything was clean.

And she didn't get a rest for a long, long time.

She scrubbed floors, dishes, and windows, cleaned every surface she could find, and put the various items littering the place in a bin so that Uncle Harold could decide what to do with them. Among some of the many things she found were a sock with three holes in it, a pan without a bottom, something lumpy, black, and hard that may have once been bread, and a shredded bucket-hat.

Paisley grew weary all over again just thinking about it. It was only when her eyelids started to droop that she remembered that she hadn't made any supper. Doggedly, she managed to get up from the chair and cook a simple, but delicious meal, which she tried to keep warm as she waited for her uncle.

She was starting to nod off, when her uncle came stumbling in the door. She stood up quickly, snatching the handkerchief from her head. "Welcome back, Uncle. I've prepared—. I say, Uncle, are you alright?"

His voice was thick but he sounded competent. "Yes, Stripes, er, Plaid. I'm fine."

"Well, I was just saying that your supper is ready and still warm."

"Already ate."

She stared at him. "You what?"

"Ate at the pub. I've had me supper. You can go ahead and eat, though." He stopped, looking around the place as if seeing it for the first time. "It looks… different."

"I cleaned up a bit."

"Good grief, I can actually see the floor!"

"They were very dirty."

"Well, alright. See you in the morning."

Paisley watched him troop towards a back room. "Where are you going?"

"Bed."

"Hang on a minute. Where am I to sleep?"

"Guest room. Never actually had any guests to room in it though. Goodnight."

Paisley stood there awkwardly for a few minutes after he left. She decided she might as well eat awkwardly as stand awkwardly, so she sat down at the table, said a quick blessing, and ate with a ready appetite.

When she was finished, she was too tired to think any more about her confusing situation, so she took a candle and carefully tiptoed into the back hall. There were two doors, one to the left, and one to the right. She assumed that the one whose door was closed was where Uncle was, so that left the one on the right.

When she entered, she was immediately engulfed by cobwebs. Stifling a shriek, she waved them away, praying that there hadn't been any spiders in them. The small candle in her hand illuminated a small, ugly, musty-smelling room that had a single bed in which resided a single moth-eaten mattress with no sheets on it. Paisley glanced back in the hall, hoping to see some sort of linen closet, but there was no such luck.

She but her lip and glared angrily at the bare mattress. "I don't care how many things have eaten you— I am going to sleep on you tonight, and I'm not going to be afraid of whatever might be hiding in you. My name is Paisley McBurl and I am a highland woman. No matter how awful this hole seems, I am going to stay here!" She dropped her small suitcases, jumped onto the bed and lay down stiffly. Presently, she curled up and added, choking on tears, "Because I've got nowhere else to go…"

xxxXXXxxx

Dickon stared at his plate moodily. His mother served him some more potatoes, but when she wasn't looking, he slipped them to one of his younger brothers, who shoveled them into his mouth hungrily. Dickon's mother beamed at her son, sitting at the head of the table. "I'm pleased ye came for a bit of supper, Dickon. We've been missing ye around here lately."

"Ye've been getting the food I drop off, right?" he asked.

"Of course! And it's well appreciated, Dickon. But it is nice to see ye once in a while."

"That's what Martha said," he said blandly.

"She's right. Even she, who can't some round all the time, knows that ye've been gone an awful lot. What do you do up there on the moors? Gone night and day you are. Very peculiar."

"I get odd jobs, herding sheep and doing other stuff no one wants to do."

"Ye don't have to work, Dickon. We get along fine here. And don't try to deny that you're the one dropping off money here and there."

One of the little ones piped up. "Mum says you're becoming an 'ermit, Dicko'."

Dickon ruffled the little girl's hair. "I'm not a hermit, Lucy. I'm just… I prefer to be alone."

"That's what Mum said an 'ermit is when I asked what an 'ermit was."

Dickon looked at his mother. "Mum, I'm not a hermit."

She sat up straight in her chair huffily. "Well, ye sure act like one."

He rose, dumping the uneaten contents of his plate into the plates of his younger siblings. He walked around to the other side, giving his mother a small peck on the cheek. "I'll be fine, Mum. Thank you for supper."

He was about to close the front door, when he heard his mother shout after him. "Ye bugger! Ye haven't even eaten anything!"

He smiled, climbing up on his horse to find somewhere that would allow him to stay the night in return for work.

He thought about what his mum said, deciding something right away.

He was not a hermit.

He was more of a… wanderer.

If you're a wanderer, though, he thought to himself. Why do ye only wander close to home? Or, more specifically, close to Misselthwaite Manor?

He tried not to think about it as he urged his horse faster.