The Setons

by O. Douglas

THE SETONS

By

O. DOUGLAS

Author of "Olivia in India," "Penny Plain," etc.

HODDER AND STOUGHTON LIMITED
LONDON

First Edition Published October 1917 Reprinted December 1917 " March 1918 " August 1918 " February 1919 " November 1919 " August 1920 " October 1920 " January 1921 " April 1921 " January 1922 " February 1922 " June 1922 " September 1922 " January 1923 " June 1923 " November 1923 " January 1924 " September 1924 " May 1925 " February 1926 " July 1926 " March 1927 " July 1927 " June 1928 " September 1928

Made and Printed in Great Britain for Hodder & Stoughton, Limited,
by C. Tinling & Co., Ltd., Liverpool, London and Prescot.

NOVELS BY O. DOUGLAS
Penny Plain
The Setons
Olivia in India
Ann and Her Mother
Pink Sugar
The Proper Place
Eliza for Common
HODDER AND STOUGHTON LTD., LONDON.

TO
MY MOTHER
IN MEMORY OF
HER TWO SONS

They sought the glory of their country
they see the glory of God

CHAPTER I

"Look to the bakemeats, good Angelica,
Spare not for cost."
Romeo and Juliet.

A November night in Glasgow.

Mr. Thomson got out of the electric tram which every evening brought him from business, walked briskly down the road until he came to a neat villa with Jeanieville cut in the pillar, almost trotted up the gravelled path, let himself in with his latchkey, shut the door behind him, and cried, "Are ye there, Mamma? Mamma, are ye there?"

After four-and-twenty years of matrimony John Thomson still cried for Jeanie his wife the moment he entered the house.

Mrs. Thomson came out of the dining-room and helped her husband to take off his coat.

"You're home, Papa," she said, "and in nice time, too. Now we'll all get our tea comfortable in the parlour before we change our clothes. (Jessie tell Annie Papa's in.) Your things are all laid out on the bed, John, and I've put your gold studs in a dress shirt—but whit's that you're carrying, John?"

John Thomson regarded his parcel rather shame-facedly. "It's a pine-apple for your party, Mamma. I was lookin' in a fruit-shop when I was waitin' for ma car and I just took a notion to get it. Not," he added, "but what I prefer tinned ones maself."

Mrs. Thomson patted her husband's arm approvingly. "Well, that was real mindful of you, Papa. It'll look well on the table. Jessie," to her daughter, who at that moment came into the lobby from the kitchen, "get down another fruit dish. Here's Papa brought home a pine-apple for your party."

"Tea's in, Mamma," said Jessie; then she took the parcel from her father, and holding his arm drew him into the dining-room, talking all the time. "Come on, Papa, and see the table. It looks fine, and the pine-apple'll give it a finish. We've got a trifle from Skinner's, and we're having meringues and an apricot souffle and——"

"Now, Jessie," Mrs. Thomson broke in, "don't keep Papa, or the sausages'll get cold. Where's Rubbert and Alick? We'll niver be ready at eight o'clock at this rate."

As she spoke, Alick, her younger son, pranced into the room, and pretended to stand awestruck at the display.

"We're not half doing it in style, eh?" he said, and made a playful dive at a silver dish of chocolates. Jessie caught him by his coat, and in the scuffle the dish was upset and the chocolates emptied on the cloth.

"Oh, Mamma!" cried the outraged Jessie, "Look what he's done. He's nothing but a torment." Picking up the chocolates, she glared over her shoulder at her brother with great disapproval. "Such a sight as you are, too. If you can't get your hair to lie straight you're not coming to the party. Mind that."

Alick ruffled up his mouse-coloured locks and looked in no way dejected. "It's your own fault anyway," he said; "I didn't mean to spill your old sweeties. Come on, Mamma, and give us our tea, and leave that lord alone in her splendour;" and half carrying, half dragging his mother, he left the dining-room.

Jessie put the chocolates back and smoothed the shining cloth.

"He's an awful boy that Alick, Papa," she said, as she pulled out the lace edge of a d'oyley. "He's always up to some mischief."

"Ay, Jessie," said her father, "he's a wild laddie, but he's real well-meaning. There's your mother calling us. Come away to your tea. I can smell the sausages."

In the parlour they found the rest of the family seated at table. Mrs. Thomson was pouring tea from a fat brown teapot; Alick, with four half-slices of bread piled on his plate, had already begun, while Robert sat in his place with a book before him, his elbows on the table, his fingers in his ears. Jessie slid into her place and helped herself to a piece of bread.

"I wish, Mamma," she said, as she speared a ball of butter, "your hadn't had sausages for tea to-night. It's an awful smell through the house."

Mrs. Thomson laid down the cup she was lifting to her mouth.

"I'm sure, Jessie," she said, "you're ill to please. Who'd ever mind a smell of cooking in the house? And a nice tasty smell like sausages, too."

"It's such a common sort of smell in the evening," went on Jessie. "I wish we had late dinner. The Simpsons have it, and Muriel says it makes you feel quite different; more refined."

"Muriel Simpson's daft," put in Alick; "Ewan says it's her that's put his mother up to send him to an English school. He doesn't want to be made English."

"It's to improve his accent," said Jessie. "Yours is something awful."

Alick laughed derisively and began to speak in a clipt and mincing fashion which he believed to be "English."

"Alick! Stop it," said his mother. "Don't aggravate your sister."

Jessie tossed her head.

"He's not aggravating me, he's only making a fool of himself."

"Papa," said Alick, appealing to his father, "sure the English are awful silly."

Mr. Thomson's mouth was full, but he answered peaceably, "They haven't had our advantages, Alick, but they mean well."

"They mebbe mean well," said Alick, "but they sound gey daft."

Robert had been eating and reading at the same time and paying no attention to the conversation, but he now passed in his cup to his mother and asked, "Who's all coming to-night?"

"Well," said his mother, lifting the "cosy" from the teapot, "they're mostly Jessie's friends. Some of them I've never seen."

"I wish, Mamma," said Jessie, "that you hadn't made me ask the Hendrys and the Taylors. The Hendrys are so dowdy-looking, and Mr. Taylor's awful common."

"Indeed, Jessie," her mother retorted, "I wonder to hear you. The Hendrys are my oldest friends, and decenter women don't live; and as for Mr. Taylor, I'm sure he's real joky and a great help at an 'evening.'"

"He'll wear his velveteen coat," said Robert.

"I dare say," said Jessie. "Velveteen coat indeed: D'you know what he calls it?—his 'splush jaicket.'"

"Taylor's a toffy wee body," said Mr. Thomson "but a good Christian man. He's been superintendent of the Sabbath school for twenty years and he's hardly ever missed a day. Is that all from the Church, Mamma? You didn't think of asking the M'Roberts or the Andersons?"

"Oh, Papa!" said Jessie, sitting back helplessly.

"What's the matter with them, Jessie?" asked Mr. Thomson. "Are they not good enough for you?"

"Uch, Papa, it's not that. But I want this to be a nice party like the Simpsons give. They never have their parties spoiled by dowdy-looking people. It all comes of going to such a poor church. I don't say Mr. Seton's not as good as anybody, but the people in the church are no class; hardly one of them keeps a girl. I don't see why we can't go to a church in Pollokshields where there's an organ and society."

"Never heed her," broke in Mrs. Thomson; "she's a silly girl. Another sausage, Papa?"

"No, Mamma. No, thanks."

"Then we'd better all away and dress," said Mrs. Thomson briskly. "Your things are laid out on your bed, Papa, and I got you a nice made-up tie."

"I'm never to put on my swallow-tail?" asked Mr. Thomson, as he and his wife went upstairs together.

"'Deed, John, Jessie's determined on it."

Mr. Thomson wandered into his bedroom and surveyed the glories of his evening suit lying on the bed, then a thought struck him.

"Here, Mamma," he called. "Taylor hasn't got a swallow-tail and I wouldn't like him to feel out of it. I'll just put on my Sabbath coat—it's wiser-like, anyway."

Mrs. Thomson bustled in from another room and considered the question.

"It's a pity, too," she said, "not to let the people see you have dress-clothes, and I don't think Mr. Taylor's the man to mind—he's gey sure of himself. Besides, there'll be others to keep him company; a lot of them'll not understand it's full dress. I'm sure it would never have occurred to me if it hadn't been for Jessie. She's got ideas, that girl!"

At that moment, Jessie, wrapped in a dressing-gown and with her hair undone, came into the room and asked, "What about my hair, Mamma? Will I do it in rolls or in a Grecian knot?"

Mrs. Thomson pondered, with her head on one side and her bodice unbuttoned.

"Well, Jessie, I'm sure it's hard to say, but I think myself the Grecian is more uncommon; though, mind you, I like the rolls real well. But hurry, there's a good girl, and come and hook me, for that new bodice fair beats me."

"All right, Mamma," said Jessie. "I'll come before I put on my dress."

"I must say, John," said Mrs. Thomson, turning to her husband, "I envy you keeping thin, though I whiles think it's a pity so much good food goes into such a poor skin. I'm getting that stout I'm a burden to myself—and a sight as well."

"Not at all, Mamma," replied her husband; "you look real comfortable. I don't like those whippin'-posts of women."

"Well, Papa, they're elegant, you must say they're elegant, and they're easy to dress. It's a thought to me to get a new dress. I wonder if Jessie minded to tell Annie to have the teapot well heated before she infused the tea. We're to have tea at one end and coffee at the other, and that minds me I promised Jessie to get out the best tea-cosy—the white satin one with the ribbon-work poppies. It's in the top drawer of the best wardrobe! I'd better get it before my bodice is on, and I can stretch!"

There were sounds of preparation all over the house, and an atmosphere of simmering excitement. Alick's voice was heard loudly demanding that some persons unknown would restore to him the slippers they had—presumably—stolen; also his tartan tie. Annie rushed upstairs to say that the meringues had come but the cream wasn't inside them, it had arrived separately in a tin, and could Miss Jessie put it in, as she couldn't trust herself; whereupon Jessie, with her hair in a Grecian knot, but still clad in a dressing-gown, fled to give the required help.

Presently Mrs. Thomson was hooked into her tight bodice of black satin made high to the neck and with a front of pink-flowered brocade. Alick found his slippers, and his mother helped him with his stiff, very wide Eton collar, and tied his tie, which was the same tartan as his kilt. Then she saw that Mr. Thomson's made-up tie was securely fastened down behind, and that his coat-collar sat properly; then, arm in arm, they descended to the drawing-room.

The drawing-room in Jeanieville was on the left side of the front door as you entered, a large room with a bow-window and two side windows. It had been recently papered and painted and refurnished. The wall-paper was yellow with a large design of chrysanthemums, and the woodwork white without spot or blemish. The thick Axminster carpet of peacock blue was thickly covered with yellow roses. It stopped about two feet from the wall all round, and the hiatus thus made was covered with linoleum which, rather unsuccessfully, tried to look like a parquet floor. There were many pictures on the wall in bright gilt frames, varied by hand-painted plaques and enlarged photographs. The "suite" of furniture was covered with brocade in a shade known as old gold; and a handsome cabinet with glass doors, and shelves covered with pale blue plush, held articles which in turn held pleasant memories for the Thomsons—objects of art from the Rue de Rivoli (they had all been in Paris for a fortnight last July) and cow-bells and carved bears from Lucerne.

"There's nothing enlarges the mind like travel," was a favourite saying of Mr. Thomson's, and his wife never failed to reply, "That's true, Papa, I'm sure."

To-night, in preparation for the party, the chairs and tables were pushed back to the wall, and various seats from the parlour and even the best bedroom had been introduced where they would be least noticed; a few forms with holland covers had also been hired from the baker for the occasion. The piano stood open, with "The Rosary" on the stand; the incandescent lights in their pink globes were already lit, and a fire—a small one, for the room would get hot presently—burned in the yellow-tiled grate.

Mr. and Mrs. Thomson paused for a moment in the doorway in order to surprise themselves.

"Well, well," said Mr. Thomson, while his wife hurried to the fireside to sweep away a fallen cinder. "You've been successful with your colour scheme, Mamma, I must say that. The yellow and white's cheery, and the blue of the carpet makes a fine contrast. You've taste right enough."

Mrs. Thomson, with her head on one side, regarded the room which, truth to say, in every detail seemed to her perfect, then she gave a long sigh.

"I don't know about taste, Papa," she said; "but how ever we'll keep all that white paint beats me. I'm thinking it'll be either me or Jessie that'll have to do it. I could not trust Annie in here, poor girl! She has such hashy ways. Now, Alick," to that youth who had sprung on her from behind, "try and behave well to-night, and not shame your sister before the Simpsons that she thinks so much of. I'm told Ewan Simpson was a perfect gentleman in an Eton suit at their party."

"Haw, haw!" laughed Alick derisively. "Who's wantin' to be a gentleman? Not me, anyway. Here, Mamma, are you going to ask wee Taylor to sing? Uch, do, he's a comic——"

"Alick," said his father reprovingly. "Mr. Taylor's not coming here to-night for you to laugh at."

"I know that," said Alick, rolling his head and looking somewhat abashed.

The entrance of Jessie and Robert diverted his parents' attention.

Jessie stood in the middle of the room and slowly turned herself round that her family might see her from all points of view.

"D'you like it, Mamma?" she asked.

"Yes, Jessie," said her mother slowly, "I do. Miss White's done well. The skirt hangs beautiful, and I must say the Empire style is becoming to you, though for myself I prefer the waist in its natural place. Walk to the door—yes—elegant."

"Very fine, Jessie," said her father.

"Do you like it, Robert?" asked Jessie.

Robert put down his book for a moment, glanced at his sister, nodded his head and said "Ucha," then returned to it.

"You're awful proud, Jessie," said Alick; "you think you're somebody."

"Never mind him, Jessie," said Mrs. Thomson. "Are ye sure we've got enough cups? Nobody'll be likely to take both tea and coffee, I suppose? Except mebbe Mr. Taylor—I whiles think that wee man's got both eatin' and drinkin' diabetes. I must say it seems to me a cold-like thing to let them sit from eight to ten without a bite. My way was to invite them at six and give them a hearty set-down tea, and then at ten we had supper, lemonade and jam tartlets and fruit, and I'm sure nothing could have been nicer. Many a one has said to me, 'Mrs. Thomson, they're no parties like your parties; they're that hearty.' How ever'll they begin the evening when they're not cheered with a cup o' tea?"

"We'll begin with music, Mamma," said Jessie.

Mrs. Thomson sniffed.

"I do hope Annie'll manage the showing in all right," went on Jessie. "The Simpsons had one letting you in and another waiting in the bedrooms to help you off with your things."

Mrs. Thomson drew herself up.

"My friends are all capable of taking off their own things, Jessie, I'm thankful to say. They don't need a lady's maid; nor does Mrs. Simpson, let me tell you, for when I first knew her she did her own washing."

"Uch, Mamma," said Jessie.

"It's five minutes to eight," said Alick, "and I hear steps. I bet it's wee Taylor."

"Mercy!" said Mrs. Thomson, hunting wildly for her slippers which she had kicked off. "Am I all right, Jessie? Give me a book—any one—yes, that."

Alick heaved a stout volume—Shakespeare's Country with Coloured Illustrations—into his mother's lap, and she at once became absorbed in it, sitting stiffly in her chair, her skirt spread out.

Mr. Thomson looked nervous; Robert retreated vaguely towards the window curtains; even Jessie felt a little uncertain, though preserving an outward calm.

"There's the bell," said Alick; "I'm off."

Jessie clutched him by his coat. "You can't go now," she hissed. "I hear Annie going to the door."

They heard the sound of the front door opening, then a murmur of voices and a subdued titter from Annie, and it closed. Next Annie's skurrying footsteps were heard careering wildly for the best bedroom, followed—a long way behind—by other footsteps. Then the drawing-room door opened prematurely, and Mr. Taylor appeared.

CHAPTER II

"Madam, the guests are come!"
Romeo and Juliet.

Mr. Taylor was a small man, with legs that did not seem to be a pair. He wore a velveteen coat, a white waistcoat, a lavender tie, and a flower in his buttonhole. In the doorway he stood rubbing his hands together and beaming broadly on the Thomsons.

"The girrl wanted me to wait on Mrs. Taylor coming downstairs, but I says to her, 'No ceremony for me, I'm a plain man,' and in I came. How are you, Mrs. Thomson? And is Jessie a good wee miss? How are you, Thomson—and Rubbert? Alick, you've grown out of recognition."

"Take this chair, Mr. Taylor," said Mrs. Thomson, while Shakespeare's Country with Coloured Illustrations slipped unheeded to the floor; and Jessie glared her disapproval of the little man.

"Not at all. I'll sit here. Expecting quite a gathering to-night, Mrs. Thomson?"

"Well, Mr. Taylor, they're mostly young people, friends of Jessie's," Mrs. Thomson explained.

"Quite so. Quite so. I'm at home among the young people, Mrs. Thomson. Always a pleasure to see them enjoy theirselves. Here comes Mrs. Taylor. C'me away, m'dear, into the fire."

"You'd think he owned the house," Jessie muttered resentfully to Robert.

Mrs. Taylor was a tall, thin woman, with a depressed cast of countenance and a Roman nose. Her hair, rather thin on the top, was parted and crimped in careful waves. She was dressed in olive-green silk. In one hand she carried a black beaded bag, and she moved at a run with her head forward, coming very close to the people she was greeting and looking anxiously into their faces, as if expecting to find them suffering from some dire disease.

On this occasion the intensity of her grasp and gaze was almost painful as "How's Mrs. Thomson?" she murmured, and even Mrs. Thomson's hearty "I'm well, thanks," hardly seemed to reassure her. The arrival of some other people cut short her greetings, and she and her husband retired arm in arm to seats on the sofa.

Now the guests arrived in quick succession.

Mrs. Thomson toiled industriously to find something to say to each one, and Jessie wrestled with the question of seats. People seemed to take up so much more room than she had expected. The sofa which she had counted on to hold four looked crowded with three, and of course her father had put the two Miss Hendrys into the two best arm-chairs, and when the Simpsons came, fashionably late (having only just finished dinner), they had to content themselves with the end of a holland-covered form hired from the baker. They were not so imposing in appearance as one would have expected from Jessie's awe of them. They had both round fat faces and perpetually open mouths, elaborately dressed hair and slightly supercilious expressions. Their accent was refined, and they embarrassed Mrs. Thomson at the outset by shaking her hand and leaving it up in the air.

The moment the Misses Simpson were seated Jessie sped towards a tall young man lounging against a window and brought him in triumph to them.

"I would like to introduce to you Mr. Stewart Stevenson—the artist, you know. Miss Gertrude Simpson, Miss Muriel Simpson—Mr. Stevenson."

"Now," she said to herself, as she walked away, "I wonder if I did that right? I'm almost sure I should have said his name first."

"Jessie," said her father in a loud whisper, clutching at her sleeve, "should we not be doing something? It's awful dull. I could ask Taylor to sing, if you like."

"Uch, no Papa," said Jessie, "at least not yet. I'll ask Mr. Inverarity—he's a lovely singer;" and shaking herself free, she approached a youth with a drooping moustache and a black tie who was standing alone and looking—what he no doubt felt—neglected.

"Oh, Mr. Inverarity," said Jessie, "I know you sing. Now," archly, "don't say you haven't brought your music."

"Well," said Mr. Inverarity, looking cheered, "as a matter of fact I did bring a song or two. They're in the hall, beside my coat; I'll get them."

"Not at all," said Jessie. "Alick! run out to the hall and bring in Mr. Inverarity's music. He's going to give us a song."

Alick went and returned with a large roll of songs. "Here," he remarked to Jessie in passing, "if he sings all these we'll do."

Mr. Inverarity pondered over the songs for a few seconds and then said, "If you would be so kind, Miss Thomson, as to accompany me, I might try this."

"All right," said Jessie, as she removed her jangling bangles and laid them on the top of the piano. "I'll do my best, but I'm not an awfully good accompanist." She gave the piano-stool a twirl, seated herself, and struck some rather uncertain chords, while Mr. Inverarity cleared his throat, stared gloomily at the carpet, and then lustily announced that it was his Wedding Morn Ding Dong.

There was a commendable silence during the performance, and in the chorus of "Thank yous" and "Lovelys" that followed Jessie led the singer to a girl with an "artistic" gown and prominent teeth, whom she introduced as "Miss Waterston, awfully fond of music."

"Pleased to meet you," said Mr. Inverarity. "No," as Miss Waterston tried to make room for him, "I wouldn't think of crowding you. I'll just sit on this wee stool, if nobody has any objections."

Miss Waterston giggled. "That was a lovely song of yours, Mr. Inverarity," she said. "I did enjoy it."

"Thank you, Miss Waterston. D'you sing yourself?"

"Oh, well," said Miss Waterston, smiling coyly at the toe of her slipper, "just a little. In fact," with a burst of confidence, "I've got a part in this year's production of the Sappho Club. Well, of course, I'm only in the chorus, but it's something to be even in the chorus of such a high-class Club. Don't you think so?"

"And what," asked Mr. Inverarity, "is the piece to be produced?"

"Oh! It's the Gondoliers, a kind of old-fashioned thing, of course. I would rather have done something more up to date, like The Chocolate Box Girl, it's lovely."

"It is," Mr. Inverarity agreed, "very tuney; but d'you know, of all these things my wee favourite's The Convent Girl."

"Fency!" said Miss Waterston, "I've never seen it. I think, don't you, that music's awfully inspiring? When I hear good music I just feel as if I could—as if I—well, you know what I mean."

"I've just the same feeling myself, Miss Waterston," Mr. Inverarity assured her—"something like what's expressed in the words 'Had I the wings of a dove I would flee,' eh? Is that it?" and Mr. Inverarity nudged Miss Waterston with his elbow.

The room was getting very hot, Mr. Thomson in his nervousness having inadvertently heaped the fire with coals.

A very small man recited "Lasca" on the hearth-rug, and melted visibly between heat and emotion.

"I say," said Mr. Stevenson to Miss Gertrude Simpson, "he looks like Casabianca. By the way, was Casabianca the name of the boy on the ship?"

"I couldn't say, I'm sure," she replied, looking profoundly uninterested.

"Do you go much to the theatre?" he asked her sister.

"We go when there's anything good on," she said.

"Such as——?"

"Oh! I don't know——" She looked vaguely round the room. "Something amusing, you know, but quite nice too."

"I see. D'you care for the Repertory?"

"Oh, well," said Miss Muriel, "they're not bad, but they do such dull things. You remember, Gertrude," leaning across to her sister, "yon awful silly thing we saw? What was it called? Yes, Prunella. And that same night some friends asked us to go to Baby Mine—everyone says it's killing,—but Papa had taken the seats and he made us use them. It was too bad. We felt awfully 'had.'"

"I think," said Miss Gertrude, "that the Repertory people are very amateurish."

Mr. Stewart Stevenson was stung.

"My dear young lady," he said severely, "one or two of the Repertory people are as good as anyone on the London stage and a long sight better than most."

"Fency," said Miss Gertrude coldly.

Stewart Stevenson looked about for a way of escape, but he was hemmed round by living walls and without doing violence he could not leave his seat. Mrs. Thomson sat before him in a creaking cane chair listening to praise of her drawing-room from Jessie's dowdy friend, Miss Hendry.

"My! Mrs. Thomson, it's lovely! Whit a carpet—pile near up to your knees!"

"D'ye like the colouring, Miss Hendry?" asked Mrs. Thomson.

Miss Hendry looked round at the yellow walls and bright gilt picture frames shining in the strong incandescent light.

"Mrs. Thomson," she said solemnly, "it's chaste!"

Mrs. Thomson sighed as if the burden of her magnificence irked her, then: "How d'ye think the evening's goin'?" she whispered.

"Very pleasant," Miss Hendry whispered back, "What about a game?"

"I don't know," said poor Mrs. Thomson. "I would say it would be the very thing, but mebbe Jessie wouldn't think it genteel."

A girl stood up beside the piano with her violin, and somebody said "Hush!" loudly, so Mrs. Thomson at once subsided, in so far as a very stout person can subside in an inadequate cane chair, and composed herself to listen to Scots airs very well played. The familiar tunes cheered the company wonderfully; in fact, they so raised Mr. Taylor's spirits that, to Jessie's great disgust, and in spite of the raised eyebrows of the Simpsons, he pranced in the limited space left in the middle of the room and invited anyone who liked to take a turn with him.

"Jolly thing a fiddle," said Stewart Stevenson cheerily to Miss Muriel Simpson.

"The violin is always nice," primly replied Miss Muriel, "but I don't care for Scotch airs—they're so common. We like high-class music."

"Perhaps you play yourself?" Mr. Stevenson suggested.

"Oh no," said Miss Muriel in a surprised tone.

"Do you care for reading?" he asked her sister.

"Oh, I like it well enough, but it's an awful waste of time."

"Are you so very busy, then?"

"Well, what with calling, and going into town, and the evenings so taken up with dances and bridge parties, it's quite a rush."

"It must be," said Mr. Stevenson.

"And besides," said Miss Gertrude, "we do quite a lot of fency work."

"But still, Gertrude," her sister reminded her, "we nearly always read on Sunday afternoons."

"That's so," said Gertrude; "but people have got such a way of dropping in to tea. By the way, Mr. Stevenson, we'll hope to see you, if you should happen to be in our direction any Sunday."

"That is very kind of you," said Mr. Stevenson.

"There!" cried Mrs. Thomson, bounding in her chair, "Miss Elizabeth's going to sing. That's fine!"

Stewart Stevenson looked over his shoulder and saw a girl standing at the piano. She was slight and straight and tall—more than common tall—grey-eyed and golden-haired, and looked, he thought, as little in keeping with the company gathered in the drawing-room of Jeanieville as a Romney would have looked among the bright gilt-framed pictures on the wall.

She spoke to her accompanist, then, clasping her hands behind her, she threw back her head with a funny little gesture and sang.

"Jock the Piper steps ahead,
Taps his fingers on the reed:
His the tune to wake the dead,
Wile the salmon from the Tweed,
Cut the peats and reap the corn,
Kirn the milk and fold the flock—
Never bairn that yet was born
Could be feared for Heather Jock.

Jock the Piper wakes his lay
When the hills are red with dawn!
You can hear him pipe away
After window-blinds are drawn.
In the sleepy summer hours,
When you roam by scaur or rock,
List the tune among the flowers,
'Tis the song of Heather Jock.

Jock the Piper, grave and kind,
Lifts the towsy head that drops!
Never eyes could look behind
When his fingers touch the stops.

Bairns that are too tired to play,
Little hearts that sorrows mock—
'There are blue hills far away,
Come with me,' says Heather Jock.

He will lead them fast and far
Down the hill and o'er the sea,
Through the sunset gates afar
To the Land of Ought-to-be!
Where the treasure ships unload,
Treasures free from bar and lock,
Jock the Piper kens the road,
Up and after Heather Jock."

In his enthusiasm Mr. Stevenson turned to the Misses Simpson and cried:

"What a crystal voice! Who is she?"

The Misses Simpson regarded him for a moment, then Miss Gertrude replied coldly:

"Her name's Elizabeth Seton, and her father's the Thomsons' minister. It's quite a poor church down in the slums, and they haven't even an organ. Pretty? D'you think so? I think there's awfully little in her face. Her voice is nice, of course, but she's got no taste in the choice of songs."

Stewart Stevenson was saved from replying, for the door opened cautiously and Annie the servant put her head in and nodded meaningly in the direction of her mistress, whereupon Mrs. Thomson heaved herself from her inadequate seat and gave a hand—an unnecessary hand—to the spare Miss Hendry.

"Supper at last!" she said. "I'm sure it's time. It niver was my way to keep people sitting wanting food, but there! What can a body say with a grown-up daughter? Eh! I hope Annie's got the tea and coffee real hot, for everything else is cold."

"Never mind, Mrs. Thomson," said Miss Hendry; "it's that warm we'll not quarrel with cold things."

They were making their way to the door, when Mr. Taylor rushed forward and, seizing Mrs. Thomson's arm, drew it through his own, remarking reproachfully, "Oh, Mrs. Thomson, you were niver goin' in without me? Now, Miss Hendry," turning playfully to that austere lady, "don't you be jealous! You know you're an old sweetheart of mine, but I must keep in with Mrs. Thomson to-night—tea and penny-things, eh?" and he nudged Miss Hendry, who only sniffed and said, "You've great spirits for your age, Mr. Taylor, I'm sure."

Mr. Taylor, who was still hugging Mrs. Thomson's arm, to her great embarrassment, pretended indignation.

"Ma age, indeed!" he said. "I'm not a day older in spirit than when I was courtin'. Ask Mrs. Taylor, ask her"; and he jerked his thumb over his shoulder at his wife, who came mincing on Mr. Thomson's arm, then pranced into the dining-room with his hostess.

"Whit is it, Miss Hendry?" asked Mrs. Taylor, coming very close and looking anxiously into her face. "Are ye feelin' the heat?"

"Not me, Mrs. Taylor," said Miss Hendry. "It's that man of yours, jokin' away as usual. He says he's as young as when he was courtin'."

"Ay," said Mrs. Taylor mournfully, "he's wonderful; but ye niver know when trouble'll come. Lizzy Leitch is down. A-ay. Quite sudden yesterday morning, when she was beginning her fortnight's washin', and I saw her well and bright last Wensday—or was it Thursday? No, it was Wensday at tea-time, and now she's unconscious and niver likely to regain it, so the doctor says. Ay, trouble soon comes, and we niver——"

"Mrs. Taylor," said Mr. Thomson nervously, "I think we'd better move on. We're keepin' people back. Miss Hendry, who'll we get to take you in, I wonder? Is there any young man you fancy?"

"Oh, Mr. Thomson," said Miss Hendry, "it's ower far on in the afternoon for that with me."

"Not at all," said Mr. Thomson politely, looking about for a squire. "Here, Alick," he cried, catching sight of his younger son, "come here and take Miss Hendry in to supper."

Alick had been boring his way supper-wards unimpeded by a female, but he cheerfully laid hands on Miss Hendry (his idea of escorting a lady was to propel her forcibly) and said, "Come on and get a seat before the rest get in, and we'll have a rare feed. It's an awful class supper. Papa brought a real pine-apple, and there's meringues and all."

Half dragged and half pushed, Miss Hendry reached the dining-room, where Mrs. Thomson, flushed and anxious, sat ensconced behind her best teacups, clasping nervously the silver teapot which was covered by her treasured white satin tea-cosy with the ribbon-work poppies. The rest of the company followed thick and fast. There were not seats for all, so some of the men having deposited their partners, stood round the table ready to hand cups.

Mrs. Thomson filled some teacups and looked round helplessly. "Where's Rubbert?" she murmured.

"Can I assist you, Mrs. Thomson?" said a polite youth behind her, clad in a dinner jacket, a double collar, and a white tie.

"Since you're so kind," said Mrs. Thomson. "That's the salver with the sugar and cream; it'll hold two cups at a time. The girl's taking round the sangwiches, if you'd just follow her."

At the other end of the table sat Jessie with the coffee-cups, but as most of the guests preferred tea, she had more time than her harassed mother to look about her.

The sight of food had raised everyone's spirits, and the hum of conversation was loud and cheerful.

Mr. Inverarity, sitting on the floor at Miss Waterston's feet, a lock of sleek black hair falling in an engaging way over one eye, a cup of tea on the floor beside him and a sandwich in each hand, was being so amazingly witty that his musical companion was kept in one long giggle.

Mrs. Taylor was looking into Mr. Thomson's face as she told him an involved and woeful tale, and the extent of the little man's misery could be guessed by the faces he was making in his efforts to take an intelligent interest in the recital.

Alick had deserted Miss Hendry for the nonce, but his place had been taken by her sister, Miss Flora, a lady as small and fat as Miss Hendry was tall and thin. They had spread handkerchiefs on their brown silk laps, and were comfortably enjoying the good things which Alick, raven-like, brought to them at intervals.

The Simpsons, Jessie regretted to see, had not been as well looked after as their superiority merited. Miss Muriel had been taken in to supper by Robert. He had supplied her with food, but of conversation, of light table-talk, he had nothing to offer her. Neither he nor the lady was making the slightest effort to conceal the boredom each felt in the other's company.

Gertrude Simpson had been unfortunate again in the way of a chair, and was seated on an indifferent wicker one culled from the parlour. Beside her stood Stewart Stevenson, eating a cream-cake, and looking disinclined for conversation.

"Jessie," said Mrs. Thomson, who had left her place behind the teacups in desperation. "Jessie, just look at Annie. The silly girl's not trying to feed the folk, she's just listening to what they're saying."

Jessie looked across the room to where Annie stood dangling an empty plate and listening with a sympathetic grin to a conversation between Mr. Taylor and a lady friend, then, seizing a plate of cakes, she set off to recall her to her duty.

"It's an awful heat," said poor Mrs. Thomson to no one in particular. Elizabeth Seton, who had crossed the room to speak to someone, stopped.

"Everything's going beautifully, Mrs. Thomson," she said. "Just look how happy everyone looks; it's a lovely party."

"I'm sure," said Mrs. Thomson, "I'm glad you think so, for it's not my idea of a party. But there, I'm old-fashioned, as Jessie often says. Tell me—d'ye think there's enough to eat?"

Elizabeth Seton laughed. "Enough! Why, there's oceans. Do let me carry some things round. It's time for the sweets, isn't it? May I take a meringue on one plate and some of the trifle on another, and ask which they'll have?"

"I wish you would," said Mrs. Thomson, "for I never think a body gets anything at these stand-up meals." She put a generous helping of trifle on a plate and handed it to Elizabeth. "And mind to say there's chocolate shape as well, and there's a kind of apricot souffley thing too. Papa brought in the pine-apple. Wasn't it real mindful of him?"

"It was indeed," said Elizabeth heartily, as she set off with her plates.

The first person she encountered was Mr. Taylor, skipping about with his fourth cup of tea.

"Too bad, Miss Seton," he cried. "Where are the gentlemen? No, thanks! not that length yet, Jessie," as the daughter of the house passed with a plate of cakes. "Since you're so pressing, I'll take a penny-thing."

"Nice girrl, Jessie," he observed, as that affronted damsel passed on. "Papa well, Miss Seton?"

"Quite well, thank you."

"That's right. Yon was a fine sermon on Sabbath mornin'. Niver heard the minister better."

"I'm glad," said Elizabeth. "I shall tell Father."

"Ay, do—we must encourage him." Mr. Taylor put what was left of his cake into his mouth, took a large gulp of tea. "It's a difficult field. Nobody knows that better than me."

"I'm sure no one does," said Elizabeth politely but vaguely. Mr. Taylor blew his nose with a large red silk handkerchief.

"Miss Seton," he said, coming close to her, and continuing confidentially, "our Sabbath-school social's comin' off on Tuesday week, that's the ninth. Would you favour us with a song? Something semi-sacred, you know."

"Of course I shall sing for you," said Elizabeth; "but couldn't I sing something quite secular or quite sacred? I don't like 'semi' things."

Mr. Taylor stood on tiptoe to put himself more on a level with his tall companion, cocked his head and looked rather like a robin.

"What's the matter with 'The Better Land'?" he asked.

Elizabeth smiled down at him and shook her head.

"Ah, well! I leave it to you, Miss Seton. Here," he caught her arm as she was turning away, "you'll remind Papa that he's to take the chair that night? Tea on the table at seven-thirty."

"Yes, I'll remind him. Keep your mind easy, Mr. Taylor. Father and I'll both be there."

"Thank you, Miss Seton; that'll be all right, then;" and Mr. Taylor took his empty cup to his hostess, while Elizabeth, seeing the two Miss Hendrys unoccupied for the moment, deposited with them the meringue and trifle.

She complimented Miss Hendry on her elegant appearance and admired Miss Flora's hand-made collar, and left them both beaming. She brought a pink meringue to Mrs. Taylor and soothed her fears of the consequences, while that lady hung her head coyly on one side and said, "Ye're temptin' me; ye're temptin' me!"

Supper had reached the fruit and chocolate stage when Jessie Thomson brought Stewart Stevenson and introduced him to Elizabeth Seton.

"I wanted to tell you how much I liked your song," he began.

"How kind of you!" said Elizabeth. "I think myself it's a nice song."

"I don't know anything about music," continued Mr. Stevenson.

"Was that why you said you liked my song instead of my singing?"

"Yes," he said; and they both laughed.

They were deep in the subject of Scots ballads when Mr. Inverarity came along with dates on a majolica dish in one hand, his other hand behind his back.

"A little historical matter," he said, offering the dates. "No? Then," he produced a silver dish with the air of a conjurer, "a chocolate?"

Elizabeth chose deliberately.

"I'm looking for the biggest," she said. "You see I'm greedy."

"Not at all," said Mr. Inverarity. "Sweets to the sweet;" and he passed on his jokesome way.

"Sweets to the sweet," repeated Elizabeth. "Isn't it funny? Words that were dropped with violets over the drowned Ophelia now furnish witticisms for suburban young men."

"Miss Seton," said Mrs. Thomson, bustling up, "you're here. We're going back to the drawing-room now to have a little more music." She dropped her voice to a hoarse whisper. "Papa's asked Mr. Taylor to sing. Jessie'll be awful ill-pleased, but he's an old friend."

"Does he want to sing?" asked Elizabeth.

"Dyin' to," said Mrs. Thomson.

Back to the drawing-room flocked the company, and Mr. Taylor, to use his own words, "took the floor." Jessie was standing beside the Simpsons and saw him do it.

"What a funny little man that is!" said Miss Simpson languidly. "What's he going to do now?"

"The dear knows," said Jessie bitterly.

They were not left long in doubt.

Mr. Taylor struck an attitude.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he began, "I have been asked to favour you with a song, but with your kind permission I'll give you first a readin'." He fumbled in his pocket and brought out a newspaper cutting. "It's a little bit I read in the papers," he explained, "very comical."

The "little bit" from the newspapers was in what is known in certain circles as "guid auld Doric," and it seemed to be about a feather-bed and a lodger, but so amused was Mr. Taylor at the joke he had last made, and so convulsed was he at one he saw coming, that very little was heard except his sounds of mirth.

Laughter is infectious, especially after supper, and the whole room rocked with Mr. Taylor. Only Jessie sat glum, and the Simpsons smiled but wanly. Greatly encouraged by the success of his reading, Mr. Taylor proceeded with his song, a rollicking ditty entitled "Miss Hooligan's Christmas Cake." It was his one song, his only song. It told, at length, the ingredients of the cake and its effect on Tim Mooney, who

"lay down on the sofa
And said that he wished he was dead."

The last two lines of the chorus ran:

"It would kill a man twice to eat half a slice
Of Miss Hooligan's Christmas Cake."

Uproarious applause greeted Mr. Taylor's efforts, and he was so elated that it was with difficulty Mr. Thomson restrained him from singing it all over again.

"You've done fine, man," he whispered. "Mind you're the superintendent of the Sabbath school."

Mr. Taylor's face sobered.

"Thomson, ye don't think it's unbecoming of me to sing 'Miss Hooligan'? I've often sang it and no harm thought, but I wouldn't for the world bring discredit on ma office. I did think of gettin' up 'Bonnie Mary o' Argyle.' It would mebbe have been more wise-like."

"No, no, Taylor; I was only joking. 'Miss Hooligan's' fine. I like it better every time I hear it. There's no ill in it. I'm sorry I spoke."

Meantime Jessie was trying to explain away Mr. Taylor to the Simpsons, who continued to look disgusted. Elizabeth Seton, standing near, came to her aid.

"Isn't Mr. Taylor delicious?" she said. "Quite as good as Harry Lauder, and you know"—she turned to Miss Muriel Simpson—"what colossal sums people in London pay Harry Lauder to sing at their parties."

Miss Muriel knew little of London and nothing of London parties, but she liked Elizabeth's assuming she did, so she replied with unction, "That is so."

"Well," said Miss Gertrude, "I never can see why people rave about Harry Lauder. I see nothing funny in vulgarity myself, but look at the crowds!"

"Perhaps," said Elizabeth, "the crowd has a vulgar mind. I wouldn't wonder;" and she turned away, to find Stewart Stevenson at her elbow.

"I say, Miss Seton," he said, "I wonder if you would care to see that old ballad-book I was telling you about?"

"I would, very much," said Elizabeth heartily. "Bring it, won't you, some afternoon? I am in most afternoons about half-past four."

"Thanks very much—I would like to.... Well, good night."

It seemed to strike everyone at the same moment that it was time to depart. There was a general exodus, and a filing upstairs by the ladies to the best bedroom for wraps, and to the parlour on the part of the men, for overcoats and goloshes, or snow-boots as the case might be.

Elizabeth stood in the lobby waiting for her cab, and watched the scene.

As Miss Waterston tripped downstairs in a blue cashmere cloak with a rabbit fur collar Mr. Inverarity emerged from the parlour, with his music sticking out of his coat-pocket.

Together they said good night to Mr. and Mrs. Thomson and told Jessie how much they had enjoyed the party. "We've just had a lovely evening, Jessie," said Miss Waterston.

"Awfully jolly, Miss Thomson," said Mr. Inverarity.

"Not at all," was Jessie's reply; and the couple departed together, having discovered that they both lived "West."

The Simpsons, clad in the smartest of evening cloaks, were addressing a few parting remarks to Jessie, when Mr. and Mrs. Taylor took, so to speak, the middle of the stage. Mrs. Taylor had turned up her olive-green silk skirt and pinned it in a bunch round her waist. Over this she wore a black circular waterproof from which emerged a pair of remarkably thin legs ending in snow-boots. An aged black bonnet—"my prayer-meeting bonnet" she would have described it—crowned her head.

They advanced arm in arm till they stood right in front of their host and hostess, then Mr. Taylor made a speech.

"A remarkably successful evenin', Mrs. Thomson, as I'm sure everybody'll admit. You've entertained us well; you've fed us sumptuous; you've——"

"Now, Mr. Taylor," Mrs. Thomson interrupted, "you'll fair affront us. It's you we've to thank for coming, and singing, and I'm sure I hope you'll be none the worse of all—there, there, are you really going? Well, good night. I'm sure it's real nice to see you and Mrs. Taylor always so affectionate—isn't it, Papa?"

"That's so," agreed Mr. Thomson.

"Mrs. Thomson," said Mr. Taylor solemnly, "me and my spouse are sweethearts still."

Mrs. Taylor looked coyly downwards, murmuring what sounded like "Aay-he"; then, with her left hand (her right hand being held by her lover-like husband), she seized Mrs. Thomson's hand and squeezed it. "I'll hear on Sabbath if ye're the worse of it," she said hopefully. "It's been real nice, but I sneezed twice in the bedroom, so I doubt I've got a tich of cold. But I'll go home and steam my head, and that'll mebbe take it in time."

"Yer cab has came," Annie, the servant, whispered hoarsely to Elizabeth.

"Thank you," said Elizabeth. Then a thought struck her: "Mrs. Taylor, won't you let me drive you both home? I pass your door. Do let me."

"I'm sure, Miss Seton, you're very kind," said Mrs. Taylor.

"Thoughtful, right enough," said her husband; and, amid a chorus of good nights, Elizabeth and the Taylors went out into the night.

Half an hour later the exhausted Thomson family sat in their dining-room. They had not been idle, for Mrs. Thomson believed in doing at once things that had to be done. Mr. Thomson and Robert had carried away the intruding chairs, and taken the "leaf" out of the table. Jessie had put all the left-over cakes into a tin box, and folded away the tablecloth and d'oyleys. Mrs. Thomson had herself carefully counted and arranged her best cups and saucers in their own cupboard, and was now busy counting the fruit knives and forks and teaspoons.

"Only twenty-three! Surely Annie's niver let a teaspoon go down the sink."

"Have a sangwich, Mamma," said her husband. "The spoon'll turn up."

Mrs. Thomson took a sandwich and sat down on a chair. "Well," she said slowly, "we've had them, and we'll not need to have them for a long time again."

"It's been a great success," said Mr. Thomson, taking a mouthful of lemonade. "Eh, Jessie?"

"It was very nice," said Jessie, "and as you say, Mamma, we'll not need to have another for a long time. Mr. Taylor's the limit," she added.

"He enjoyed himself," said her father.

"He's an awful man to eat," said Mrs. Thomson. "It's not the thing to make remarks about guests' appetites, I know, but he fair surpassed himself to-night. However, Mrs. Taylor, poor body, 's quite delighted with him."

"He sang well," said Mr. Thomson. "I never heard 'Miss Hooligan' better. Quite a lot of talent we had to-night, and Miss Seton's a treat. Nobody can sing like her, to my mind."

"That's true," said his wife. "Mr. Stevenson seems a nice young man, Jessie. What does he do?"

"He's an artist," said Jessie. "I met him at the Shakespeare Readings. Muriel Simpson thinks he's awfully good-looking."

"Muriel Simpson's not, anyway," said Alick. "She's a face like a scone, and it's all floury too, like a scone."

"Alick," said his father, "it's high time you were in bed, my boy. We'll be hearing about this in the morning. What about your lessons?"

"Lessons!" cried Alick shrilly. "How could I learn lessons and a party goin' on?"

"Quite true," said Mr. Thomson. "Well, it's only once in a while. Rubbert"—to his son who was standing up yawning—"you're no great society man."

Robert shook his head.

"I haven't much use for people at any time," he said, "but I fair hate them at a party."

And Mr. Thomson laughed in an understanding way as he went to lift in the mat and lock the front door, and make Jeanieville safe for the night.

CHAPTER III

"When that I was and a little tiny boy,
With a hey ho hey, the wind and the rain."
Twelfth Night.

The Reverend James Seton sat placidly eating his breakfast while his daughter Elizabeth wrestled in spirit with her young brother.

"No, Buff, you are not to tell yourself a story. You must sup your porridge."

Buff slapped his porridge vindictively with his spoon and said, "I wish all the millers were dead."

"Foolish fellow," said his father, as he took a bit of toast.

"Come away," said Elizabeth persuasively, scooping a hole in the despised porridge, "we'll make a quarry in the middle." She filled it up with milk. "There! We've made a great deep hole, big enough to drown an army. Now—one sup for the King, and one for the boys in India, and one for—for the partridge in the pear-tree, and one for the poor little starved pussy downstairs."

Buff twisted himself round to look at his sister's face.

"Yes, there is. Ellen found it last night at the kitchen door. If you finish your breakfast quickly, you may run down and see it before prayers."

"What's it like?" gurgled Buff, as the porridge slid in swift spoonfuls down his throat.

"Grey, with a black smudge on its nose and such a little tail."

"Set me down," said Buff, with the air of one who would behold a cherished vision.

Elizabeth untied his napkin, and in a moment they heard him clatter down the kitchen stairs.

Elizabeth met her father's eyes and smiled. "Funny Buff! Isn't it odd his passion for cats? Oh, Father, you haven't asked about the party."

Mr. Seton passed his cup to be filled.

"That is only my second, isn't it?" he asked, "Well, I hope you had a pleasant evening?"

Elizabeth wrinkled her brows as she filled her cup. "Pleasant? Warm, noisy, over-eaten, yes—but pleasant? And yet, do you know, it was pleasant because the Thomsons were so anxious to please. Dear Mrs. Thomson was so kind, stout and worried, and Mr. Thomson is such an anxious little pilgrim always; and Jessie was so smart, and Robert—what a nice boy that is!—so obviously hated us all, and Alick's accent was as refreshing as ever. We got the most tremendously fine supper—piles and piles of things, and everybody ate such a lot, especially Mr. Taylor—'keeping up the tabernacle' he called it. I was sorry for Jessie with that little man. It is hard to rise to gentility when you are weighted with parents who will stick to their old friends, and our church-people, though they are of such stuff as angels are made, don't look well on the outside. I know Jessie felt they spoiled the look of the party."

"Poor Jessie!" said Mr. Seton.

"Yes, poor Jessie! I never saw Mr. Taylor so jokesome. He called her a 'good wee miss,' and shamed her in the eyes of the Simpsons (you don't know them—stupid, vulgar people). And then he sang! Father, do you think 'Miss Hooligan' is a fit song for the superintendent of the Sabbath school to sing?"

Mr. Seton smiled indulgently.

"I don't think there's much wrong with 'Miss Hooligan,'" he said; "she's a very old friend."

"You mean she's respectable through very age? Perhaps to us, but I assure you the Simpsons were simply stunned last night at the first time of hearing."

Elizabeth poured some cream into her cup, then looked across at her father with her eyes dancing with laughter. "I laugh whenever I think of Mrs. Taylor," she explained—"ma spouse, as Mr. Taylor calls her. I don't think she has any mind really; her whole conversation is just a long tangle of symptoms, her own and other people's. What infinite interests she gets out of her neighbours' insides! And then the preciseness of her dates—'would it be Wensday? No, it was Tuesday—no, Wensday it must ha' been.'"

Her father chuckled appreciatively at Elizabeth's reproduction of Mrs. Taylor's voice and manner, but he felt constrained to remark: "Mrs. Taylor's an excellent woman, Elizabeth. You're a little too given to laughing at people."

"Oh, Father, if a minister's daughter can't laugh, what is the poor thing to do? But, seriously, I find myself becoming horribly minister's daughterish. I'm developing a 'hearty' manner, I smile and smile, and I have that craving for knowledge of the welfare of absent members of families that is so distinguishing a feature of the female clergy. And I don't in the least want to be a typical 'minister's daughter.'"

"I think," said Mr. Seton dryly, "you might be many a worse thing." He rose as he spoke and brought a Bible from the table in the corner. "Ring the bell, will you? The child will be late if he doesn't come now."

Even as he spoke the door was opened violently, and Buff came stumbling in, with a small frightened kitten in his arms.

"Father, look!" he cried breathlessly, casting himself and his burden on his father's waistcoat. "It's a lost kitten, quite lost and very little—see the size of its tail. It's got no home, but Marget says it's got fleas and she won't let it live in her kitchen; but you'll let it stay in your study, won't you, Father? It'll sit beside you when you're writing your sermons, and then when I'm doing my lessons it'll cheer me up."

Mr. Seton gently stroked the little shivering ball of fur. "Not so tight, Buff. The poor beastie can scarcely breathe. Put it on the rug now, my son. Here are the servants for prayers." But the little lost kitten clung with sharp frightened claws to Mr. Seton's trousers, and Buff, liking the situation, made no serious effort to dislodge it.

The servants, Marget and Ellen, took their seats and instantly Marget's wrath was aroused and her manners forgotten.

"Tak' that cat aff yer faither's breeks, David," she said severely.

"Shan't," said Buff, glowering at her over his shoulder.

"Don't be rude, my boy," said Mr. Seton.

"She was rude to the little cat, Father; she said it had fleas."

"Well, well," said his father peaceably; "be quiet now while I read."

Elizabeth rose and detached the kitten, taking it and Buff on her knee, while her father opened the Bible and read some verses from Jeremiah—words that Jeremiah the prophet spake unto Baruch the son of Neriah in the fourth year of Jehoiakim, the son of Josiah, king of Judah. Elizabeth stroked Buff's mouse-coloured hair and thought how remote it all sounded. This day would be full of the usual little busynesses—getting Buff away to school, ordering the dinner, shopping, writing letters, seeing people—what had all that to do with Baruch, the son of Neriah, who lived in the fourth year of Jehoiakim?

The moment prayers were over Buff leapt to his feet, seized the kitten, and dashed out of the room.

"He's an ill laddie that," Marget observed, "but there's wan thing aboot him, he's no' ill-kinded to beasts."

"Marget," said Elizabeth, "you know quite well that in your heart you think him perfection."

"No' me," said Marget; "I think no man perfection. Are ye comin' to see aboot the denner the noo, or wull I begin to ma front-door?"

"Give me three minutes, Marget, to see the boys off."

Two small boys with school-bags on their backs came up the gravelled path. "Here comes Thomas—and Billy following after. Buff! Buff!—where is the boy?"

"Here," said Buff, emerging suddenly from his father's study. "Where's my bag?"

He paid no attention to his small companion and Thomas and Billy made no sign of recognition to him.

"Are you boys not going to say good morning?" asked Elizabeth, as she put on Buff's school-bag. "Don't you know that when gentlefolk meet courtesies are exchanged?"

The three boys looked at each other and murmured a greeting in a shame-faced way.

"Can you say your lessons to-day, Thomas?" Elizabeth asked, buttoning the while Buff's overcoat.

"No," said Thomas, "but Billy can say his."

"This is singing-day," said Billy brightly.

Billy was round and fat and beaming. Thomas was fat too, but inclined to be pensive. Buff was thin and seemed all one colour—eyes, hair, and complexion. Thomas and Billy were pretty children: Buff was plain.

"Uch!" said Thomas.

"I thought you liked singing-day," said Elizabeth.

"We did," said Buff, "but last day they asked me and Thomas to stop singing cos we were putting the others off the tune."

"Oh!" said Elizabeth, trying not to smile. "Well, it's time you were off. Here's your Edinburgh rock." She gave each of them half a stick of rock, which they stuck in their mouths cigar-wise.

"Be sure and come straight home," said Elizabeth to Buff.

"You'd better not come to tea with us to-day, Buff," said Thomas. "Mamma said yesterday it was about time we had a rest."

"I wasn't coming," said the outraged Buff.

Elizabeth put an arm round him as she spoke to Thomas.

"Mamma has quite enough with her own, Thomas. I expect when Buff joins you you worry her dreadfully. I think you and Billy had better come to tea here to-day, and after you have finished your lessons we'll play at 'Yellow Dog Dingo.'"

"Hurray!" said Billy.

"And when we've finished 'Yellow Dog Dingo,'" said Buff, "will you play at 'Giantess'?"

"Well—for half an hour, perhaps," said Elizabeth. "Now run off, or I'll be Giantess this minute and eat you all up."

They moved towards the door; then Thomas stopped and observed dreamily:

"I dreamt last night that Satan and his wife and baby were chasing me."

"Oh, Thomas!" said Elizabeth. She watched the three little figures in their bunchy little overcoats, with their arms round each other's necks, stumble out of the gate, then she shut the front-door and went into her father's study.

Mr. Seton was standing in what, to him, was a very characteristic attitude. One foot was on a chair, his left hand was in his pocket, while in his right he held a smallish green volume. A delighted smile was on his face as Elizabeth entered.

"Aha, Father! Caught you that time."

Mr. Seton put the book back on the shelf.

"My dear girl, I was only glancing at something that——"

"Only a refreshing glance at Scott before you begin your sermon, Father dear, and 'what for no'? Oh! while I remember—the Sabbath-school social comes off on the ninth: you are to take the chair, and I'm to sing. I shall print it in big letters on this card and stick it on the mantelpiece, then we're bound to remember it."

Mr. Seton was already at his writing-table.

"Yes, yes," he said in an absent-minded way. "Run away now, like a good girl. I'm busy."

"Yes, I'm going. Just look at the snug way Buff has arranged the kitten. Father, Thomas has been having nightmares about Satan in his domestic relations. Did you know Satan had a wife and baby——?"

"Elizabeth!"

"I didn't say it; it was Thomas. That boy has an original mind."

"Well, well, girl; but you are keeping me back."

"Yes, I'm going. There's just one thing—about the chapter at prayers. I was wondering—only wondering, you know—if Baruch the son of Neriah had any real bearing on our everyday life?"

Mr. Seton looked at his daughter, then remarked as he turned back to his work: "I sometimes think you are a very ignorant creature, Elizabeth."

But Elizabeth only laughed as she shut the door and made her way kitchenwards.

On the kitchen stairs she met Ellen the housemaid, who stopped her with a "Please, Miss Elizabeth," while she fumbled in the pocket of her print and produced a post card with a photograph on it.

"It's ma brither," she explained. "I got it this mornin'."

Elizabeth carried the card to the window at the top of the staircase and studied it carefully.

"I think he's like you, Ellen," she said. "How beautifully his hair is brushed."

Ellen beamed. "He's got awful pretty prominent eyes," she said.

"Yes," said Elizabeth. "I expect you're very proud of him, Ellen. Is he your eldest brother?"

"Yes, mum. He's a butcher in the Co-operative and awful steady."

Elizabeth handed back the card.

"Thank you very much for letting me see it. How is your little sister's foot?"

"It's keepin' a lot better, and ma mother said I was to thank you for the toys and books you sent her."

"Oh, that's all right. I'm so glad she's better. When you're doing my room to-day remember the mirrors, will you? This weather makes them so dim."

"Yes, mum," said Ellen cheerfully, as she went to her day's work.

Elizabeth found Marget waiting for her. She had laid out on the kitchen-table all the broken meats from the pantry and was regarding the display gloomily. Marget had been twenty-five years with the Setons and was not so much a servant as a sort of Grand Vizier. She expected to be consulted on every point, and had the gravest fears about Buff's future because Elizabeth refused to punish him.

"It's no' kindness," she would say; "it's juist saftness. He should be wheepit."

She adored the memory of Elizabeth's mother, who had died five years before, when Buff was a little tiny boy. She adored too "the Maister," as she called Mr. Seton, though deprecating his other-worldly, absent-minded ways. "It wadna dae if we were a' like the Maister," she often reminded Elizabeth. "Somebody maun think aboot washin's and things."

As to the Seton family—Elizabeth she thought well-meaning but "gey impident whiles"; the boys in India, Alan the soldier and Walter the promising young civilian, she still described as "notorious ill laddies"; while Buff (David Stuart was his christened name) she regarded as a little soul who, owing to an over-indulgent father and sister, was in danger of straying on the Broad Road were she not there to herd him by threats and admonitions into the Narrow Way.

Truth to say, she admired them enormously, they were her "bairns," but often her eyes would fill with tears as she said, "They're a' fine, but the best o' them's awa'."

Sandy, the eldest, had died at Oxford in his last summer-term, to the endless sorrow of all who loved him. His mother—that gentle lady—a few months later followed him, crushed out of life by the load of her grief, and Elizabeth had to take her place and mother the boys, be a companion to her father, shepherd the congregation, and bring up the delicate little Buff, who was so much younger than the others as to seem like an only child.

Elizabeth had stood up bravely to her burden, and laughed her way through the many difficulties that beset her—laughed more than was quite becoming, some people said; but Elizabeth always preferred disapproval to pity.

This morning she noted down all that Marget said was needed, and arranged for the simple meals. Marget was very voluble, and the difficulty was to keep her to the subject under discussion. She mixed up orders for the dinner with facts about the age of her relations in the most distracting way.

"Petaty-soup! Aweel, the Maister likes them thick. As I was sayin', ma Aunty Marget has worked hard a' her days, she's haen a dizzen bairns, and noo she's ninety-fower an' needs no specs."

"Dear me," said Elizabeth, edging towards the door. "Well, I'll order the fish and the other things; and remember oatcakes with the potato-soup, please."

She was half-way up the kitchen stairs when Marget put her head round the door and said, "That's to say if she's aye leevin', an' I've heard no word to the contrary."

Elizabeth telephoned the orders, then proceeded to dust the drawing-room—one of her daily duties. It was a fairly large room, papered in soft green; low white bookcases on which stood pieces of old china lined three sides; on the walls were etchings and prints, and over the fireplace hung a really beautiful picture by a famous artist of Elizabeth's mother as a girl. A piano, a table or two, a few large arm-chairs, and a sofa covered in bright chintz made up the furniture of what was a singularly lovable and home-like room.

Elizabeth's dusting of the drawing-room was something of a ceremonial: it needed three dusters. With a silk duster she dusted the white bookcases and the cherished china; the chair legs and the tables and the polished floor needed an ordinary duster; then she got a selvyt-cloth and polished the Sheffield-plate, the brass candlesticks and tinder-boxes. After that she shook out the chintz curtains, plumped up the cushions, and put her dusters in their home in a bag that hung on the shutter. "That's one job done," she said to herself, as she stopped to look out of the window.

The Setons' house stood in a wide, quiet road, with villas and gardens on both sides. It was an ordinary square villa, but it was of grey stone and fairly old, and it had some fine trees round it. Mr. Seton often remarked that he never saw a house or garden he liked so well, but then it was James Seton's way to admire sincerely everything that was his.

Just opposite rose the imposing structure of three storeys in red stone which sheltered Thomas and Billy Kirke. Mr. Kirke was in business. Elizabeth suspected him—though with no grounds to speak of—of "soft goods." Anyway, from some mysterious haunt in the city "Papa" managed to get enough money to keep "Mamma" and the children in the greatest comfort, to help the widows and fatherless, and to entertain a large circle of acquaintances in most hospitable fashion. He was a cheery little man with a beard, absolutely satisfied with his lot in life.

Elizabeth looked out at the prospect somewhat drearily. It was a dull November day. Rain was beginning to fall heavily; the grass looked sodden and dark. A message-boy went past, with his empty basket over his head, whistling a doleful tune. A cart of coal stopped at the Kirkes', and she watched the men carry it round to the kitchen premises. They had sacks over their shoulders to protect them from the rain, and they lifted the wet, shining lumps of coal into hamper-like baskets and staggered with them over the well-gravelled path. What a grimy job for them, Elizabeth thought, but everything seemed rather grimy this morning. Try as she would, she couldn't remember any really pleasant thing that was going to happen; day after day of dreary doings loomed before her. She sighed, and then, so to speak, shook herself mentally.

Elizabeth had a notion that when one felt depressed the remedy was not to give oneself a pleasure, but to do some hated duty, so she now thought rapidly over distasteful tasks awaiting her. Buff's suit to be sponged with ammonia and mended, old clothes to be looked out for a jumble sale, a pile of letters to reply to. "Oh dear!" said Elizabeth; but she went resolutely upstairs, and by the time she had tidied out various drawers and laid out unneeded garments, and had brought brown paper and string and tied them into neat bundles, she felt distinctly more cheerful.

The mending of Buff's suit completed the cheering process; for, in one of his trouser pockets, she found a picture drawn and coloured by that artist. It was a picture of Noah and the Ark, bold in conception if not very masterly in workmanship. Noah was represented with his head poked out of a skylight, his patriarchal beard waving in the wind, watching for the return of the dove; but the artist must have got confused in his ornithology, for the fowl coming towards Noah was a fearsome creature with a beak like an eagle. Aloft, astride on a somewhat solid cloud, clad in a crown and a sort of pyjama-suit, sat what was evidently intended to be an angel of sorts—watching with interest the manoeuvres of Noah and the eagle-like dove. And as Elizabeth smoothed out the crumpled masterpiece she wondered how she could have imagined herself dull when the house contained the Buffy-boy.

The writing-table in the drawing-room showed a pile of letters waiting to be answered. Elizabeth stirred the fire into a blaze, sniffed at a bowl of violets, and sat down to answer them. "Two bazaar circulars! and both from people who have helped me.... Well, I must just buy things to send." She turned to the next. "How bills do come home to roost! I wish I had paid this at the time. Now I must write a cheque—and my account so lean and shrunken. What an offence bills are!"

Very reluctantly she wrote a cheque and looked at it wistfully before she put it into the envelope, and took up a letter from a person unknown, resident in Rothesay, asking her to sing in that town at a charity concert. "I heard you sing while staying with my sister, Mrs. M'Cubbins, whom you know, and I will be pleased if you can stay the night——" so ran the letter. "Pleased if I stay the night!" thought Elizabeth wrathfully. "I should just think I would if I went—which I won't, of course. Mrs. M'Cubbins' sister! That explains the impertinence." And she wrote a chill note regretting that she could not give herself the pleasure. An invitation to dinner was declined because it was for "Prayer-meeting night." Then she took up a long letter, much underlined, which she read through carefully before she began to write.

"Most kind of Aunts.—How can I possibly go to Switzerland with you this Christmas? Have I not a father? also a younger brother? It's not because I don't want to go—you know how I would love it; but picture to yourself Father and Buff spending their Christmas alone! Would you not come to us? I propose it with diffidence, for I know you think in Glasgow dwelleth no good thing; but won't you try it? You know you have never given it a chance. A few hours on your way to the North is all you ever give us, and Glasgow can't be judged in an hour or two—nor its people either. I don't say that it would be in the least amusing for you, but it would be great fun for us, and you ought to try to be altruistic, dearest of aunts. You know quite well that Mr. Arthur Townshend will be quite all right without you for a little. He has probably lots of invitations for Christmas, being such a popular young man and——"

The opening of the gate and the sound of footsteps on the gravel made Elizabeth run to the window.

"Buff—carrying his coat and the rain pouring! Of all the abandoned youths!"

Buff dashed into the house, threw his overcoat into one corner, his cap into another, and violently assaulted the study door, kicking it when it failed to open at the first attempt.

"Boy, what are you about?" asked his father, as Buff fell on his knees before the chair on which lay, comfortably asleep, the little rescued kitten.

CHAPTER IV

"Sir Toby Belch. Does not our life consist of four elements?
Sir Andrew Aguecheek. Faith, so they say, but I think it rather consists of eating and drinking."
Twelfth Night.

"Poo-or pussy!" murmured Buff, laying his head beside his treasure on the cushion.

"Get up, boy," said Mr. Seton. "You carry kindness to animals too far."

"And he doesn't carry tidiness any way at all," said Elizabeth, who had followed Buff into the study. "He has strewed his garments all over the place in the most shocking way. Come along, Buff, and pick them up.... Father, tell him to come."

"Do as your sister says, Buff."

But Buff clung limpet-like to the chair and expostulated. "What's the good of putting things tidy when I'm putting them on again in a minute?"

"There's something in that," Mr. Seton said, as he put back in the shelves the books he had been using.

"All I have to say," said Elizabeth, "is that if I had been brought up in this lax way I wouldn't be the example of sweetness and light I am now. Do as you are told, Buff. I hear Ellen bringing up luncheon."

Buff stowed the kitten under his arm and stood up. "I'll pick them up," he said in a dignified way, "if Launcelot can have his dinner with me."

"Who?" asked Elizabeth.

"This is him," Buff explained, looking down at the distraught face of the kitten peeping from under his arm.

"What made you call it Launcelot?" asked Elizabeth, as her father went out of the room laughing.

"Thomas said to call him Topsy, and Billy said Bull's Eye was a nice name, but I thought he looked more like a Launcelot."

"Well—I'll take it while you pick up your coat and run and wash your hands. You'll be late if you don't hurry."

"Aw! no sausages!" said Buff, five minutes later, as he wriggled into his place at the luncheon-table.

"Can't have sausages every day, sonny," said his sister; "the butcher man would get tired making them for us."

"Aren't there any sausage-mines?" asked Buff; but his father and sister had begun to talk to each other, so his question remained unanswered.

Unless spoken to, Buff seldom offered a remark, but talked rapidly to himself in muffled tones, to the great bewilderment of strangers, who were apt to think him slightly deranged.

Ellen had brought in the pudding when Elizabeth noticed that her young brother was sitting with a tense face, his hands clenched in front of him and his legs moving rapidly.

She touched his arm to recall him to his surroundings. "Don't touch me," he said through his teeth. "I'm a motor and I've lost control of myself."

He emitted a shrill "Honk Honk," to the delight of his father, who inquired if he were the car or the chauffeur.

"I'm both," said Buff, his legs moving even more rapidly. Ellen, unmoved by such peculiar table-manners, put his plate of pudding before him, and Buff, hearing Elizabeth remark that Thomas and Billy were in all probability even now on their way to school, fell to, said his grace, was helped into his coat, and left the house in almost less time than it takes to tell.

Mr. Seton and Elizabeth were drinking their coffee when Elizabeth said:

"I heard from Aunt Alice this morning."

"Yes? How is she?"

"Very well, I think. She wants me to go with her to Switzerland in December. Of course I've said I can't go."

"Of course," said Mr. Seton placidly.

Elizabeth pushed away her cup.

"Father, I don't mind being noble, but I must say I do hate to have my nobility taken for granted."

"My dear girl! Nobility——"

"Well," said Elizabeth, "isn't it pretty noble to give up Switzerland and go on plodding here? Just look at the rain, and I must go away down to the district and collect for Women's Foreign Missions. There are more amusing pastimes than toiling up flights of stairs and wresting shillings for the heathen from people who can't afford to give. I can hardly bear to take it."

"My dear, would you deny them the privilege?"

It might almost be said that Elizabeth snorted.

"Privilege! Oh, well... If anyone else had said that, but you're a saint, Father, and I believe you honestly think it is a privilege to give. You must, for if it weren't for me I doubt if you would leave yourself anything to live on, but—oh! it's no use arguing. Where are you visiting this afternoon?"

"I really ought to go to Dennistoun to see that poor body, Mrs. Morrison."

"It's such a long way in the rain. Couldn't you wait for a better day?"

James Seton rose from the table and looked at the dismal dripping day, then he smiled down at his daughter. "After twenty years in Glasgow I'm about weather-proof, Lizbeth. If I don't go to-day I can't go till Saturday, and I'm just afraid she may be needing help. I'll see one or two other sick people on my way home."

Elizabeth protested no more, but followed her father into the hall and helped him with his coat, brushed his hat, and ran upstairs for a clean handkerchief for his overcoat pocket.

As they stood together there was a striking resemblance between father and daughter. They had the same tall slim figure and beautifully set head, the same broad brow and humorous mouth. But whereas Elizabeth's eyes were grey, and faced the world mocking and inscrutable, her father's were the blue hopeful eyes of a boy. Sorrow and loss had brought to James Seton's table their "full cup of tears," and the drinking of that cup had bent his shoulders and whitened his hair, but it had not touched his expression of shining serenity.

"Are you sure those boots are strong, Father? And have you lots of car-pennies?"

"Yes. Yes."

Elizabeth went with him to the doorstep and patted his back as a parting salutation.

"Now don't try to save money by walking in the rain; that's poor economy. And oh! have you the money for Mrs. Morrison?"

"No, I have not. That's well-minded. Get me half a sovereign, like a good girl."

Elizabeth brought the money.

"We would need to be made of half-sovereigns. Remember Mrs. Morrison is only one of many. It isn't that I grudge it to the poor dears, but we aren't millionaires exactly. Well, good-bye, and now I'm off on the quest of Women's Foreign Mission funds."

Her father from half-way down the gravel-path turned and smiled, and Elizabeth's heart smote her.

"I'll try and go with jubilant feet, Father," she called.

A few minutes later she too was ready for the road, with a short skirt, a waterproof, and a bundle of missionary papers.

Looking at herself in the hall mirror, she made a disgusted face. "I hate to go ugly to the church-people, but it can't be helped to-day. My feet look anything but jubilant; with these over-shoes I feel like a feather-footed hen."

Ellen came out of the dining-room, and Elizabeth gave her some instructions.

"If Master David is in before I'm back see that he takes off his wet boots at once, will you? And if Miss Christie comes, tell her I'll be in for tea, and ask her to wait. And, Ellen, if Marget hasn't time—I know she has some ironing to do—you might make some buttered toast and see that there's a cheery fire."

"Yes, mum, I will," said Ellen earnestly.

Once out in the rain, Elizabeth began to tell herself that there was really something rather nice about a thoroughly wet November day. It made the thought of tea-time at home so very attractive.

She jumped on a tram-car and squeezed herself in between two stout ladies. The car was very full, and the atmosphere heavy with the smell of damp waterproofs. Dripping umbrellas, held well away from the owners, made rivulets on the floor and caught the feet of the unwary, and an air of profound dejection brooded over everyone. Generally, Elizabeth got the liveliest pleasure from listening to conversation in the car, but to-day everyone was as silent as a canary in a darkened cage.

At Cumberland Street she got off, and went down that broad street of tall grey houses with their air of decayed gentility. Once, what is known as "better-class people" had had their dwellings there, but now the tall houses were divided into tenements, and several families found their home in one house. Soon Elizabeth was in meaner streets—drab, dreary streets which, in spite of witnesses to the contrary in the shape of frequent public-houses and pawnshops, harboured many decent, hard-working people. From these streets, largely, was James Seton's congregation drawn.

She stopped at the mouth of a close and looked up her collecting book.

"146. Mrs. Veitch—1s. Four stairs up, of course."

It was a very bright bell she rang when she reached the top landing, and it was a very tidy woman, with a clean white apron, who answered it.

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Veitch," said Elizabeth.

"It's Miss Seton," said Mrs. Veitch. "Come in. I'll tak' yer umbrelly. Wull ye gang into the room? I'm juist washin' the denner-dishes."

"Mayn't I come into the kitchen? It's always so cosy."

"It's faur frae that," said Mrs. Veitch; "but come in, if ye like."

She dusted a chair by the fireside, and Elizabeth sat down. Behind her, fitted into the wall, was the bed with its curtain and valance of warm crimson, and spotless counterpane. On her right was the grate brilliant from a vigorous polishing, and opposite it the dresser. A table with a red cover stood in the middle of the floor, and the sink, where the dinner-dishes were being washed, was placed in the window. Mrs. Veitch could wash her dishes and look down on a main line railway and watch the trains rush past. The trains to Euston with their dining-cars fascinated her, and she had been heard to express a great desire to have her dinner on the train. "Juist for the wance, to see what it's like."

If perfect naturalness be good manners, Mrs. Veitch's manners were excellent. She turned her back on her visitor and went on with her washing-up.

"That's the London train awa' by the noo'," she said, as an express went roaring past. "When Kate's in when it passes she aye says, 'There's yer denner awa then, Mither.' It's a kinda joke wi' us noo. It's queer I've aye hed a notion to traivel, but traivellin's never come ma gait—except traivellin' up and doon thae stairs to the washin'-hoose."

Elizabeth began eagerly to comfort.

"Yes—travelling always seems so delightful, doesn't it? I can't bear to pass through a station and see a London train go away without me. But somehow when one is going a journey it's never so nice. Things go wrong, and one gets cross and tired, and it isn't much fun after all."

"Mebbe no'," said Mrs. Veitch drily, "but a body whiles likes the chance o' finding oot things for theirsel's."

"Of course," said Elizabeth, feeling snubbed.

Mrs. Veitch washed the last dish and set it beside the others to drip, then she turned to her visitor.

"It's money ye're efter, I suppose?"

Elizabeth held out one of the missionary papers and said in an apologetic voice:

"It's the Zenana Mission. I called to see if you cared to give this year?"

Mrs. Veitch dried her hands on a towel that hung behind the door, then reached for her purse (Elizabeth's heart nipped at the leanness of it) from its home in a cracked jug on the dresser-shelf.

"What for wud I no' give?" she asked, and her tone was almost defiant.

"Oh," said Elizabeth, looking rather frightened, "you're like Father, Mrs. Veitch. Father thinks it's a privilege to be allowed to give."

"Ay, an' he's right. There's juist Kate and me, and it's no' verra easy for twae weemen to keep a roof ower their heads, but we'll never be the puirer for the mite we gie to the Lord's treasury. Is't a shillin'?"

"Yes, please. Thank you so much. And how is Kate? Is she very busy just now?"

"Ay. This is juist the busy time, ye ken, pairties and such like. She's workin' late near every nicht, and she's awful bad wi' indisgeestion, puir thing. But Kate's no' yin to complain."

"I'm sure she's not," said Elizabeth heartily. "I wonder—some time when things are slacker—if she would make me a blouse or two? The last were so nice."

"Were they?" asked Mrs. Veitch suspiciously. "Ye aye say they fit perfect, and Kate says to me, 'Mither,' she says, 'I wonder if Miss Seton doesna juist say it to please us?'"

"What!" said Elizabeth, springing to her feet, "Well, as it happens, I am wearing a blouse of Kate's making now——" She quickly undid her waterproof and pulled off the woolly coat she wore underneath. "Now, Mrs. Veitch, will you dare to tell that doubting Kate anything but that her blouse fits perfectly?"

Mrs. Veitch's face softened into a smile.

"Eh, lassie, ye're awfu' like yer faither." she said.

"In height," said Elizabeth, "and perhaps in a feature or two, but not, I greatly fear"—she was buttoning her waterproof as she spoke—"not, Mrs. Veitch, in anything that matters. Well, will you give Kate the message, and tell her not to doubt my word again? I'm frightfully hurt——"

"Ay," said Mrs. Veitch. "Weel, ye see, she's no' used wi' customers that are easy to please. Are ye for aff?"

"Yes, I must go. Oh! may I see the room? It was being papered the last time I was here. Was the paper a success?"

Instead of replying, Mrs. Veitch marched across the passage and threw open the door with an air.

Elizabeth had a way of throwing her whole heart into the subject that interested her for the moment, and it surprised and pleased people to find this large and beautiful person taking such a passionate (if passing) interest in them and their concerns.

Now it was obvious she was thinking of nothing in the world but this little best parlour with its newly papered walls.

After approving the new wall-paper, she proceeded to examine intently the old steel engravings in their deep rose-wood frames. The subjects were varied: "The Murder of Archbishop Sharp" hung above a chest of drawers; "John Knox dispensing the Communion" was skyed above the sideboard; "Burns at the Plough being crowned by the Spirit of Poesy" was partially concealed behind the door; while over the fireplace brooded the face of that great divine, Robert Murray M'Cheyne. These and a fine old bureau filled with china proclaimed their owner as being "better," of having come from people who could bequeath goods and gear to their descendants. Elizabeth admired the bureau and feasted her eyes on the china.

"Just look at these cups—isn't it a brave blue?"

"Ay," said Mrs. Veitch rather uncertainly; "they were ma granny's. I wud raither hev hed rose-buds masel'—an' that wide shape cools the tea awfu' quick." She nodded mysteriously toward the door at the side of the fire which hid the concealed bed. "We've got a lodger," she said.

"What!" cried Elizabeth, startled. "Is she in there now?"

"Now!" said Mrs. Veitch in fine scorn. "What for wud she be in the now? She's at her wark. She's in a shop in Argyle Street."

"Oh!" said Elizabeth. "Is she a nice lodger?"

"Verra quiet; gives no trouble," said Mrs. Veitch.

"And you'll make her so comfortable. Do you bake treacle scones for her? If you do, she'll never leave you."

"I was bakin' this verra day. Could ye—wud it bother ye to carry a scone hame? Mr. Seton's terrible fond o' treacle scone. I made him a cup o' tea wan day he cam' in and he ett yin tae't, he said he hedna tastit onything as guid sin' he was a callant."

"I know," said Elizabeth. "He told me. Of course I can carry the scones, if you can spare them."

In a moment Mrs. Veitch had got several scones pushed into a baker's bag and was thrusting it into Elizabeth's hands.

"I'll keep it dry under my waterproof," Elizabeth promised her. "My umbrella? Did I leave it at the door?"

"It's drippin' in the sink. Here it's. Good-bye, then."

"Good-bye, and very many thanks for everything—the subscription and the scones—and letting me see your room."

At the next house she made no long visitation. It was washing-day, and the mistress of the house was struggling with piles of wet clothes, sorting them out with red, soda-wrinkled hands, and hanging them on pulleys round the kitchen. Having got the subscription, Elizabeth tarried not an unnecessary moment.

"What a nuisance I am!" she said to herself as the door closed behind her. "Me and my old Zenana Mission. It's a wonder she didn't give me a push downstairs, poor worried body!"

The next contributor had evidently gone out for the afternoon, and Elizabeth reflected ruefully that it meant another pilgrimage another day. The number of the next was given in the book as 171, but she paused uncertainly, remembering that there had been some mistake last year, and doubting if she had put it right. At 171 a boy was lounging, whittling a stick.

"Is there anyone called Campbell in this close?" she asked him.

"Wait yo here," said the boy, "an' I'll rin up and see." He returned in a minute.

"Naw—nae Cam'l. There's a Robison an' a M'Intosh an' twa Irish-lukin' names. That's a'. Twa hooses emp'y."

"Thank you very much. It was kind of you to go and look. D'you live near here?"

"Ay." The boy jerked his head backwards to indicate the direction. "Thistle Street."

"I see." Elizabeth was going to move on when a thought came to her. "D'you go to any Sunday school?"

"Me? Naw!" He looked up with an impudent grin. "A'm what ye ca' a Jew."

Elizabeth smiled down at the little snub-nosed face. "No, my son. Whatever you are, you're not that. Listen—d'you know the church just round the corner?"

"Seton's kirk?"

"Yes. Seton's kirk. I have a class there every Sunday afternoon at five o'clock—six boys just about your age. Will you come?"

"A hevna claes nor naething."

"Never mind; neither have the others. What's your name?"

"Bob Scott."

"Well, Bob, I do wish you'd promise. We have such good times."

Bob looked sceptical.

"A whiles gang to Sabbath schules," he said, "juist till the swuree comes aff, and then A leave." His tone suggested that in his opinion Sabbath schools and good times were things far apart.

"I see. Well, we're having a Christmas-tree quite soon. You might try the class till then. You'll come some Sunday? That's good. Now, if I were you I would go home out of the rain."

Bob had resumed his whittling, and he looked carefully at his work as he said:

"I canna gang hame for ma faither: he's drunk, and he'll no' let's in."

"Have you had any dinner?"

"Uch, no. A'm no heedin' for't," with a fine carelessness.

Elizabeth tilted her umbrella over her shoulder the better to survey the situation. There was certainly little prospect of refreshment in this grey street which seemed to contain nothing but rain, but the sharp ting-ting of an electric tram passing in the street above brought her an idea, and she caught the boy's arm.

"Come on, Bob, and we'll see what we can get."

Two minutes brought them to a baker's shop, with very good-looking things in the window and a fat, comfortable woman behind the counter.

"Isn't this a horrible day, Mrs. Russel?" said Elizabeth. "And here's a friend of mine who wants warming up. What could you give him to eat, I wonder?"

Mrs. Russel beamed as if feeding little dirty ragged boys was just the thing she liked best to do.

"It's an awful day, as you say, Miss Seton, an' the boy's wet through. Whit would ye say to a hot tupp'ny pie an' a cup-o'-tea? The kettle's juist on the boil; I've been havin' a cup masel'—a body wants something to cheer them this weather." She laughed cheerily. "He could take it in at the back—there's a rare wee fire."

"That'll be splendid," said Elizabeth; "won't it Bob?"

"Ay," said Bob stolidly, but his little impudent starved face had an eager look.

Elizabeth saw him seated before the "rare wee fire" wolfing "tupp'ny pies," then she gathered up her collecting papers and prepared to go.

"Well! Good-bye, Bob; I shall see you some Sabbath soon. Where's that umbrella? It's a bad day for Zenana Missions, Mrs. Russel."

"Is that whit ye're at the day? I thought ye were doin' a bit o' home mission work."

She followed Elizabeth to the shop-door.

"Poor little chap!" said Elizabeth. "Give him as much as he can eat, will you?"—she slipped some money into her hand—"and put anything that's over into his pocket. I'm most awfully grateful to you, Mrs. Russel. It was too bad to plant him on you, but if people will go about looking so kind they're just asking to be put upon."

The rain was falling as if it would never tire. The street lamps had been lit, and made yellow blobs in the thick foggy atmosphere. The streets were slippery with that particular brand of greasy mud which Glasgow produces. "I believe I'll go straight home," thought Elizabeth.

She wavered for a moment, then: "I'll do Mrs. Martin and get the car at the corner of the street," she decided. "It's four o'clock, but I don't believe the woman will be tidied."

The surmise was only too correct. The door when Elizabeth reached it was opened by Mr. Martin—a gentleman of infinite leisure—who seemed uncertain what to do with her. Elizabeth tried to solve the difficulty by moving towards the kitchen but he gently headed her off until a voice from within cried, "Come in, if ye like, Miss Seton, but A'm strippit."

The situation was not as acute as it sounded. Mrs. Martin had removed her bodice, the better to comb her hair, and Elizabeth shuddered to see her lay the comb down beside a pat of butter, as she cried to her husband, "John, bring ma ither body here."

She was quite unabashed to be found thus in deshabille, and talked volubly the while she twisted up her hair and buttoned her "body." She was a round robin-like woman with, as Elizabeth put it, "the sweetest smile and the dirtiest house in Glasgow."

"An' how's Papa this wet weather?"

"Quite all right, thank you. And how are you?"

"Off and on, juist off and on. Troubled a lot with the boil, of course." (Elizabeth had to think for a minute before she realised this was English for "the bile.") "Many a day, Miss Seton, nothing'll lie." Mrs. Martin made a gesture indicating what happened, and continued: "Mr. Martin often says to me, 'Maggie,' he says 'ye're no' fit to work; let the hoose alane,' he says. Divn't ye, John?" she asked, turning to her husband, who had settled himself by the fire with an evening paper, and receiving a grunt in reply. "But, Miss Seton, there's no' a lazy bone in ma body and I canna see things go. I must be up an' doin': a hoose juist keeps a body at it."

"It does," agreed Elizabeth, trying not to see the unmade bed and the sink full of dirty dishes.

"An' whit are ye collectin' for the day? Women's Foreign Missions? 'Go ye into all the world.' We canna go oorsel's, but we can send oor money. Where's ma purse?"

She went over to the littered dresser and began to turn things over, until she discovered the purse lurking under a bag of buns and a paper containing half a pound of ham. Elizabeth stood up as a hint that the shilling might be forthcoming, but Mrs. Martin liked an audience, so she sat down on a chair and put a hand on each knee. "Mr. Seton said on Sunday we were to give as the Lord had prospered us. Weel, I canna say much aboot that, we're juist aye in the same bit, but as A often tell ma man, Miss Seton, we must a' help each other, for we're a' gaun the same road—mebbe the heathen tae, puir things!"

Mr. Martin grunted over his newspaper, and his wife continued: "There's John there—Mr. Martin, A'm meanin'—gits fair riled whiles aboot poalitics. He canna stand Tories by naething, they fair scunner him, but I juist say to him, 'John, ma man,' I says, 'let the Tories alane, for we're a' Homeward Bound.'"

Elizabeth stifled a desire to laugh, while Mr. Martin said with great conviction and some irrelevance, "Lyd George is the man."

"So he is," said his wife soothingly, "though A whiles think if he wud tak' a bit rest to hissel' it wud be a guid job for us a'."

"Well," said Elizabeth, opening her purse in an expectant way, "I must go, or I shall be late for tea."

"Here's yer shillun," said Mrs. Martin, rather with the air of presenting a not quite deserved tip.

"An' how's wee David? Yon's a rale wee favourite o' mine. Are ye gaun to mak' a minister o' him?"

"Buff? Oh, I don't think we quite know what to make of him."

Mrs. Martin leaned forward. "Hev ye tried a phrenologist?" she asked earnestly.

"No," said Elizabeth, rather startled.

"A sister o' mine hed a boy an' she couldna think what to mak' o' him. He had no—no—whit d'ye ca' it?"

Elizabeth nodded her comprehension.

"Bent?" she suggested.

"Aweel, she tuk him to yin o' thae phrenologists, an' he said he wud be either an auctioneer or a chimist, and," she finished triumphantly, "a chimist he wus!"

CHAPTER V

"Truly I would the gods had made thee poetical."
As You Like It.

In the Seton's drawing-room a company was gathered for tea.

Ellen had remembered Elizabeth's instructions, and a large fire of logs and coal burned in the white-tiled grate. A low round table was drawn up before the fire, and on it tea was laid—a real tea, with jam and scones and cookies, cake and shortbread. On the brass muffin-stool a pile of buttered toast was keeping warm.

James Seton, who dearly loved his tea, was already seated at the table and was playing with the little green-handled knife which lay on his plate as he talked to Elizabeth's friend, Christina Christie. Thomas and Billy sat on the rug listening large-eyed to Buff, who was telling them an entirely apocryphal tale of how he had found an elephant's nest in the garden.

Launcelot lay on a cushion fast asleep.

"Elizabeth is late," said Mr. Seton.

"I think I hear her now," said Miss Christie; and a moment later the drawing-room door opened and Elizabeth put her head in.

"Have I kept you all waiting for tea? Ah! Kirsty bless you, my dear. No, I can't come in as I am. Just give me one minute to remove these odious garments—positively one minute, Father. Yes, Ellen, bring tea, please."

The door closed again.

"And the egg was as big as a roc's egg," went on Buff.

"You never saw a roc's egg," Thomas reminded him, "so how can you know how big they are?"

"I just know," said Buff, with dignity. "Father, how big is a roc's egg?"

"A roc's egg," said Mr. Seton thoughtfully. "A great white thing, Sindbad called it, 'fifty good paces round.' As large as this room, Buff, anyway. Ah! here's your sister."

"Now for tea," said Elizabeth, seating herself behind the teacups. "Sit on this side, Kirsty; you'll be too hot there. What a splendid fire Ellen has given us. Well, Thomas, my son, what do you want first? Bread-and-butter? That's right! Pass Billy some butter, Buff. I wouldn't begin with a cookie if I were you. No, not jam with the first bit, extravagant youth. Now, Kirsty, do put out your hand, as Marget would say, because, as you know, we have no manners in this house."

"I am having an excellent tea," said Miss Christie. "Ellen said you were collecting this afternoon, Elizabeth."

"Oh, Kirsty, my dear, I was. In the Gorbals, in the rain, begging for shillings for Women's Foreign Missions. And I didn't get them all in either, and I shall have to go back. Father, I'm frightfully intrigued to know what Mr. Martin does. What is his walk in life? Go any time you like, he's always in the house. Can he be a night-watchman?"

Mr. Seton helped himself to a scone.

"I had an idea," he said, "that Martin was a cabinet-maker, but he may have retired."

"Perhaps," said Buff, "he's a Robber. Robbers don't go out through the day, only at night with dark lanterns, and come in with sacks of booty."

Elizabeth laughed.

"No, Buff. I don't think that Mr. Martin has the look of a robber exactly. Perhaps he's only lazy. But I'm quite sure Mrs. Martin's efforts don't keep the house. Of all the dirty little creatures! And so full of religion! I've no use for people's religion if it doesn't make them keep a clean house. 'We're all Homeward Bound,' she said to me. 'So we are, Mrs. Martin,' said I, 'but you might give your fireside a brush-up in passing!'"

"Now, now, Elizabeth," said her father, "you didn't say that!"

"Well, perhaps I didn't say it exactly, but I certainly thought it," said Elizabeth.

At this moment Buff, who had been gobbling his bread-and-butter with unseemly haste and keeping an anxious eye on a plate of cakes, saw Thomas take the very cake he had set his heart on, and he broke into a howl of rage. "He's taken my cake!" he shouted.

"Buff, I'm ashamed of you," said his sister. "Remember, Thomas is your guest."

"He's not a guest," said Buff, watching Thomas stuff the cake into his mouth as if he feared that it might even now be wrested from him, "he's a pig."

"One may be both," said Elizabeth. "Never mind him, Thomas. Have another cake."

"Thanks," said Thomas, carefully choosing the largest remaining one.

"If Thomas eats so much," said Billy pleasantly, "he'll have to be put in a show. Mamma says so."

"Billy," said Miss Christie, "how is it that you have such a fine accent?"

"I don't know," said Billy modestly.

"It's because," Thomas hastened to explain—"it's because we had an English nurse when Billy was little. I've a Glasgow accent myself," he added.

"My accent's Peebleshire," said Buff, forgetting his wrongs in the interest of the conversation.

"Mamma says that's worse," said Thomas gloomily.

Mr. Seton chuckled. "You're a funny laddie, Thomas," he said.

"Kirsty," said Elizabeth, "this is no place for serious conversation; I haven't had a word with you. Oh! Father, how is Mrs. Morrison?"

"Very far through."

"Ah! Poor body. Is there nothing we can do for her?"

"No, my dear, I think not. She never liked taking help and now she is past the need of it. I'm thankful for her sake her race is nearly run."

Thomas stopped eating. "Will she get a prize, Mr. Seton?" he asked.

James Seton looked down into the solemn china-blue eyes raised to his own and said, seriously and as if to an equal:

"I think she will, Thomas—the prize of her high calling in Jesus Christ."

Thomas went on with his bread-and-butter, and a silence fell on the company. It was broken by a startled cry from Elizabeth.

"Have you hurt yourself, girl?" asked her father.

"No, no. It's Mrs. Veitch's scones. To think I've forgotten them! She sent them to you, Father, for your tea. Buff, run—no, I'll go myself;" and Elizabeth left the room, to return in a moment with the paper-bagful of scones.

"I had finished," said Mr. Seton meekly.

"We'll all have to begin again," said his daughter. "Thomas, you could eat a bit of treacle scone, I know."

"The scones will keep till to-morrow," Miss Christie reminded her.

"Yes," said Elizabeth, "but Mrs. Veitch will perhaps be thinking we are having them to-night, and I would feel mean to neglect her present. You needn't smile in that superior way, Kirsty Christie."

"They are excellent scones," said Mr. Seton, "and I'm greatly obliged to Mrs. Veitch. She is a fine woman—comes of good Border stock."

"She's a dear," said Elizabeth; "though she scares me sometimes, she is so utterly sincere. That's grievous, isn't it, Father?—to think I live with such double-dealers that sincerity scares me."

Mr. Seton shook his head at her.

"You talk a great deal of nonsense, Elizabeth," he said, a fact which Elizabeth felt to be so palpably true that she made no attempt to deny it.

Later, when the tea-things had been cleared away and the three boys lay stretched on the carpet looking for a picture of the roc's egg in a copy of The Arabian Nights, James Seton sat down rather weariedly in one of the big chintz-covered chairs by the fire.

"You're tired, Father," said Elizabeth.

James Seton smiled at his daughter. "Lazy, Lizbeth, that's all—lazy and growing old!"

"Old?" said Elizabeth. "Why, Father, you're the youngest person I have ever known. You're only about half the age of this weary worldling your daughter. You can never say you're old, wicked one, when you enjoy fairy tales just as much as Buff. I do believe that you would rather read a fairy tale than a theological book. He can't deny it, Kirsty. Oh, Father, Father, it's a sad thing to have to say about a U.F. minister, and it's sad for poor Kirsty, who has been so well brought up, to have all her clerical illusions shattered."

"Oh, girl," said her father, "do you never tire talking?"

"Never," said Elizabeth cheerfully, "but I'm going to read to you now for a change. Don't look so scared, Kirsty; it's only a very little poem."

"I'm sure I've no objection to hearing it," said Miss Christie, sitting up in her chair.

Elizabeth lifted a blue-covered book from a table, sat down on the rug at her father's feet, and began to read. It was only a very little poem, as she had said—a few exquisite strange lines. When she finished she looked eagerly up at her father and—"Isn't it magical?" she asked.

"Let me see the book," said Mr. Seton, and at once became engrossed.

"It's very nice," said Miss Christie; "but your voice, Elizabeth, makes anything sound beautiful."

"Kirsty, my dear, how pretty of you!"

Elizabeth's hands were clasped round her knees, and she sat staring into the red heart of the fire as she repeated:

"Who said 'All Time's delight
Hath she for narrow bed:
Life's troubled bubble broken'?
That's what I said."

Kirsty, I love that—'Life's troubled bubble broken'."

"Say it to me Lizbeth," said Buff, who had left his book when his sister began to read aloud.

"You wouldn't understand it, sonny."

"But I like the sound of the words," Buff protested. So Elizabeth said it again.

"Who said Peacock Pie?
The old King to the Sparrow...."

"I like it," said Buff, when she had finished. "Say me another."

"Not now, son. I want to talk to Kirsty now. When you go to bed I shall read you a lovely one about a Zebra called Abracadeebra. Have you done your lessons for to-morrow? No? Well, do them now. Thomas and Billy will do them with you—and in half an hour I'll play 'Yellow Dog Dingo.'"

Having mapped out the evening for her young brother, Elizabeth rose from her lowly position on the hearth-rug, drew forward a chair, and said, "Now, Kirsty, we'll have a talk."

That Elizabeth Seton and Christina Christie should be friends seemed a most improbable thing. They were both ministers' daughters, but there any likeness ended. It seemed as if there could be nothing in common between this tall golden Elizabeth with her impulsive ways, her rapid heedless speech, her passion for poetry, her faculty for making new friends at every turn, and Christina, short, dark, and neat, with a mind as well-ordered as her raiment, suspicious of strangers and chilling with her nearest—and yet a very true friendship did exist.

"How is your mother?" asked Elizabeth.

"Mother's wonderful. Father has been in the house three days with lumbago. Jeanie has a cold too. I think it's the damp weather. This is my month of housekeeping. I wish, Elizabeth, you would tell me some new puddings. Archie says ours are so dull."

Elizabeth immediately threw herself into the subject of puddings.

"I know one new pudding, but it takes two days to make and it's very expensive. We only have it for special people. You know 'Aunt Mag,' of course? and 'Uncle Tom'? That's only 'Aunt Mag' with treacle. Semolina, sago, big rice—we call those milk things, we don't dignify them by the name of pudding. What else is there? Tarts, oh! and bread puddings, and there's that greasy kind you eat with syrup, suet dumplings. A man in the church was very ill, and the doctor said he hadn't any coating or lining or something inside him, because his wife hadn't given him any suet dumplings."

"Oh, Elizabeth!"

"A fact, I assure you," said Elizabeth. "We always have a suet dumpling once a week because of that. I'm afraid I'm not being very helpful, Kirsty. Do let's think of something quite new, only it's almost sure not to be good. That is so discouraging about the dishes one invents.... Apart from puddings, how is Archie?"

"Oh, he's quite well, and doing very well in business. He has Father's good business head."

"Yes," said Elizabeth. She did not admire anything about the Rev. Johnston Christie, least of all his business head. He was a large pompous man, with a booming voice and a hearty manner, and he had what is known in clerical circles as a "suburban charge." Every Sunday the well-dressed, well-fed congregation culled from villadom to which he ministered filled the handsome new church, and Mr. Christie's heart grew large within him as he looked at it. He was a poor preacher but an excellent organiser: he ran a church as he would have run a grocery establishment. His son Archie was exactly like him, but Christina had something of her mother, a deprecating little woman with feeble health and a sense of humour whom Elizabeth called Chuchundra after the musk-rat in the Jungle Book that could never summon up courage to run into the middle of the room.

"Yes," said Elizabeth, "I foresee a brilliant future for Archie, full of money and motor-cars and knighthoods."

"Oh! I don't know," said Christina, "but I think he has the knack of making money. How are your brothers?"

"Both well, I'm glad to say. Walter has got a new job—in the Secretariat—and finds it vastly entertaining. Alan seems keener about polo than anything else, but he's only a boy after all."

"You talk as if you were fifty at least."

"I'm getting on," said Elizabeth. "Twenty-eight is a fairly ripe age, don't you think?"

"No, I don't," said Christina somewhat shortly. Christina was thirty-five.

"Buff asked me yesterday if I remembered Mary Queen of Scots," went on Elizabeth, "and he alluded to me in conversation with Thomas as 'my elderly nasty sister.'"

"Cheeky little thing!" said Christina. "You spoil that child."

Elizabeth laughed, and by way of turning the conversation asked Christina's advice as to what would sell best at coming bazaars. At all bazaar work Christina was an expert, and she had so many valuable hints to give that long before she had come to an end of them Elizabeth was hauled away to play "Yellow Dog Dingo."

Christina had little liking for children, and it was with unconcealed horror that she watched her friend bounding from Little God Nqu (Billy) to Middle God Nquing (Buff), then to Big God Nquong (Thomas), begging to be made different from all other animals, and wonderfully popular by five o'clock in the afternoon.

It was rather an exhausting game and necessitated much shouting and rushing up and down stairs, and after everyone had had a chance of playing in the title rôle, Elizabeth sank breathless, flushed and dishevelled, into a chair.

"Well, I must say——" said Christina.

"Come on again," shouted Billy, while Thomas and Buff loped up and down the room.

"No—no," panted Elizabeth, "you're far too hot as it is. What will 'Mamma' say if you go home looking like Red Indians?"

Mr. Seton, quite undisturbed by the noise, had been engrossed in the poetry book, but now he laid it down and looked at his watch.

"I must be going," he said.

But the three boys threw themselves on him—"A bit of Willy Wud; just a little bit of Willy Wud," they pleaded.

James Seton was an inspired teller of tales, and Willy Wud was one of his creations. His adventures—and surely no one ever had stranger and more varied adventures—made a sort of serial story for "after tea" on winter evenings.

"Where did we leave him?" he asked, sitting down obediently.

"Don't you remember, Father?" said Buff. "In the Robbers' Cave."

"He was just untying that girl," said Thomas.

"She wasn't a girl," corrected Billy, "she was a princess."

"It's the same thing," said Thomas. "He was untying her when he found the Robber Chief looking at him with a knife in his mouth."

So the story began and ended all too soon for the eager listeners, and Mr. Seton hurried away to his work.

"Say good-night, Thomas and Billy," said Elizabeth, "and run home. It's very nearly bed-time."

"To-morrow's Saturday," said Thomas suggestively.

"So it is. Ask 'Mamma' if you may come to tea, and come over directly you have had dinner."

Thomas looked dissatisfied.

"Couldn't I say to Mamma you would like us to come to dinner? Then we could come just after breakfast. You see, there's that house we're building——"

"I'm going to buy nails with my Saturday penny," said Billy.

"By all means come to dinner," said Elizabeth, "if Mamma doesn't mind. Good-night, sonnies—now run."

She opened the front-door for them, and watched them scud across the road to their own gate—then she went back to the drawing-room.

"I must be going too," said Miss Christie, sitting back more comfortably in her chair.

"It's Band of Hope night," said Elizabeth.

Buff had been marching up and down the room, with Launcelot in his arms, telling himself a story, but he now came and leant against his sister. She stroked his hair as she asked, "What's the matter, Buffy boy?"

"I wish," said Buff, "that I lived in a house where people didn't go to meetings."

"But I'm not going out till you're in bed. We shall have time for reading and everything. Say good-night to Christina, and see if Ellen has got your bath ready. And, Buff," she said, as he went out of the door, "pay particular attention to your knees—scrub them with a brush; and don't forget your fair large ears, my gentle joy."

"Those boys are curiosities," said Miss Christie. "What house is this they're building?"

"It's a Shelter for Homeless Cats," said Elizabeth, "made of orange boxes begged from the grocer. I think it was Buff's idea to start with, but Thomas has the clever hands. Must you go?"

"These chairs are too comfortable," said Miss Christie, as she rose; "they make one lazy. If I were you, Elizabeth, I wouldn't let Buff talk to himself and tell himself stories. He'll grow up queer.... You needn't laugh."

"I'm very sorry, Christina. I'm afraid we're a frightfully eccentric family, but you'll come and see us all the same, won't you?"

Miss Christie looked at her tall friend, and a quizzical smile lurked at the corner of her rather dour mouth. "Ay, Elizabeth," she said, "you sound very humble, but I wouldn't like to buy you at your own valuation, my dear."

Elizabeth put her hands on Christina's shoulders as she kissed her good-night. "You're a rude old Kirsty," she said, "but I dare say you're right."