Mr. Bunns with his cart was waiting at the station when Helen and I arrived. He loaded out trunks and cases with the ease of a man used to moving 50 pound bags of flour. We were making good time for the village, when an oddly dressed young man came stumbling out of the wood as if he hadn't even seen us!

Mr. Bunns' team was well trained, and stopped quickly enough to avoid the young man. The only things injured were my witts. The man spoke rather haltingly, mixed with one of those Gaelic tongues. (I can't keep Irish, Welsh, and Scottish straight, they all sound the same to me) We managed to discover his name, Owen. He must have injured his head, since his eye sight was failing, and what little he had seemed to be quite blurry. Helen and I brought him home with us, since we have a great deal of empty space. Mr. Bunns said he would notify the doctor. We put the young man to bed with a nice cup of tea, then turned to our own unpacking.

Mr. Cormac's clothing was most archaic, it seemed to be made of home spun cloth, well made, but most certainly hand-made. It was clean, but smelled strongly of leaf mould, at this time of year, no less. He had a small ancient purse with a number of gold and silver coins, all quite old, but well polished. Most strangly of all, was the wonderful old irish harp he carried. It called gently when he sat it down by his bed side. The young man spoke as fairly as his halting command of the language would allow. Though his accent was so thick that I had to labor to understand what he was saying. Hellen had less trouble, though.

Less than an hour back in town, and already in the thick of things. It seemed that our young visitor was quite the puzzle.