The Boggart and the Monster by Susan Cooper

lady.
“And wrapped it in a wet paper towel.”
    â€œWe’ll look up the rules, Emily,”
said Mr. Maconochie, appearing at her side with an armful of small pots.
“Choose yourself a heather and I’ll buy it for you.”
    â€œThis one,”
said Emily promptly, picking up a plant covered in tiny, sturdy purple flowers.
“Thank you, Mr. Mac.”
    â€œ
Erica vulgaris
. Very hardy,”
said the old lady approvingly.
“An excellent choice.”
Her eye traveled over the pots in Mr. Maconochie’s arms.
“And so are these. My goodness, you have quite remarkable taste, you people. Come along into my office.”
    She led them toward a long, low greenhouse tucked behind the rows of plants. It was filled with long tables bearing rows of very small heathers in very small pots,and it bore no resemblance to an office except that in one corner there was a battered wooden desk and two canvas chairs, one on either side of it. On the desk were a cash register, a cup of tea and a sleeping cat.
    Mr. Maconochie followed her meekly, clutching his pots. He had to duck his head to go through the door.
“It’s a very exposed area, where I live,”
he said.
“And the soil’s pretty poor. I hope they won’t mind.”
    â€œFor the right person, my dear, they will grow anywhere,”
the old lady said.
“Where
do
you live?”
She pulled off one of her red Wellington boots and tipped out a small stone, without holding onto anything for balance. Mr. Maconochie watched in admiration.
    â€œPort Appin,”
he said.
“Castle Keep.”
    In the middle of pulling her boot back on, the old lady suddenly lost her balance completely. She clutched at her desk, and recovered herself.
    â€œCastle Keep,”
she said.
“Well, well. Are you the new owner?”
    â€œThat’s right,”
said Mr. Maconochie.
“Emily here inherited it, or rather her father did, and I bought it from him.”
    â€œReally,”
said the old lady. She took Mr. Maconochie’s heathers from him one by one and began packing them into a low-sided cardboard box.
“And is it a quiet life you have there?”
    Emily glanced at her sharply. It seemed an odd question, from a stranger. But the lined old face was smiling and open.
    Mr. Maconochie said guardedly,
“Most of the time.”
    â€œDevon MacDevon was a good friend of mine,”
the old lady said.
“Many years ago, when I was young.”
She took a miniature pair of clippers, and carefully trimmed off a broken shoot from one of the heathers.
    â€œDid you know his sister?”
Emily said.
    The old lady laughed.
“The black lamb of the family? No, my dear, I am very old but not quite as old as that. But I remember the story. She ran away with a Campbell, and married him, so the family never spoke to her again.”
    â€œWe are a foolish, tribal race,”
Mr. Maconochie said, lighting his pipe.
“With long memories.”
    â€œWe are that. She and her husband went abroad, I believe.”
    â€œTo Canada. She was my great-grandmother,”
Emily said proudly.
    â€œWas she now?”
said the old lady, smiling at her, and for an instant Emily had the strong, startling impression that this piece of news was not news to her at all.
“Then you are a MacDevon, and the first one to have stood amongst my heathers for a very long time.”
She fed some numbers into the cash register, and looked up at Mr. Maconochie.
    â€œEight at three-fifty, that will be twenty-eight pounds,”
she said.
    â€œVery reasonable,”
said Mr. Maconochie, and he wrote her a check, being a careful and reactionary man who did not approve of credit cards.
    The old lady studied the check.
“James U. Maconochie,”
she read. She looked up at him again, andEmily saw that she had very green eyes, like his own.
“So you would be an Urquhart, Mr. Maconochie.”
    She punched at the cash register,