“If they should dare to do such a thing, we’ll wait over a day,” Babe threatened savagely.
But no such drastic measures proved necessary.
“In spite of what your mother said, I verily believe we’re the only Americans on board,” said Babe gleefully, as they swung out of Greenock harbor next morning. It was a glorious day, with fleecy white clouds scudding across a blue sky and the sun turning the sea to a sheet of sparkling silver. As they got further out into the Firth of Clyde the wind blew the clouds up over the sun and wrapped the craggy islands in purple mists. The scenery grew wilder and more magnificent every moment, and the girls more enthusiastic. Every time the boat stopped at a pretty watering-place or a lonely fishing village, Betty wished they could get off. “For I don’t see how it can be any nicer than this around Oban,” she said, “and what if it should be like Ayr?”
But all day the purple headlands grew bolder and more beautiful, and when at last Oban came into view it proved to be the crowning glory of the day’s trip. The crescent-shaped bay had a great rock to guard it on one side and an ivy-covered ruin on the other. Between them the little town clung to the hills above the sea, its villas almost hidden among the trees, and a huge stone amphitheatre, which the girls couldn’t even guess the meaning of, crowning the highest slope.
Madeline had written ahead to “Daisybank Villa,” so there was a boy to meet them at the landing, take charge of their bags, and show them the way up a steep, winding road, to the house—such a pretty house, with roses climbing around the door and real Scotch daisies starring the turf of the tiny lawn.
“Oh, see the ‘daisies pied,’” cried Babe in great excitement. “There’s more of Robert Burns in this yard than there was in the whole of that horrid old Ayr. Do let’s have dinner right off, so we can go and explore.”
But dinner was at noon in “Daisybank Villa,” so the pretty young housekeeper explained apologetically. What they had now was “tea,”—which meant bread and butter, even nicer, if possible, than Miss Jelliff’s; hot scones and bannocks—Babe demanded the names of the blushing little waitress—the nicest orange marmalade, fresh strawberries smothered in thick cream, and tea with a “cozy” to keep the pot warm.
But the real feature of the occasion was the bell which one rang by getting up from the table and pulling a heavy red tassel that hung behind a curtain by the door.
“Exactly as they always do on the stage,” said Babe in ecstasy, manfully resisting the temptation to summon the waitress again just for the fun of pulling the bell.
“And we’re living in lodgings in a villa by the sea,” added Betty. “I feel like the heroine of a Jane Austen novel, and I’m going to write to Nan this very evening. She’ll be so pleased to think that I’ve at last had a literary sensation.”