“London!” she exclaimed, wonderingly. “Where I have never been! My name—you’ll think it a curious one—is Madrasia—Madrasia Durham. Did you ever hear such a queer name as Madrasia?”
“Never!” said I. “How did you get it?”
“Born in Madras,” she answered. “My father was a merchant there. Mr. Parslewe, my guardian, with whom I live here, was his partner. They died—my father and mother, I mean—when I was little, so Mr. Parslewe has looked after me ever since. We came to England three years ago, and Mr. Parslewe bought this old place, and fitted it up. Do you like it?”
“From what I’ve seen of it, immensely,” I answered. “What is it, exactly—or, rather, what has it been?”
“Mr. Parslewe says it was a sixteenth-century peel tower—a sort of castle, you know,” she answered. “There are a good many here and there, on each side of the Tweed. We stayed for some time at Berwick when we came to England, looking round for an old place. Then we found this, and settled down. It’s delightful in summer, and in winter it’s weird!”
“Has it a name?” I asked. “Because it’s not marked on my map.”
“Name?—Yes!” she answered. “It’s called Kelpieshaw—that’s Kelpie Strand, that lies outside it, between Langlee Crags and Hedgehope Hill. But you’ll see more in the morning—if the storm’s cleared.”
The old woman came in with the tea-tray. Whether she resented my presence or not, she knew her duties, and her home-made cakes were as good as her face was stern.
“That’s our sole domestic,” observed my hostess, as she poured out the tea. “Tibbie Muir: she’s been with us ever since we came here. The old man you saw in the kitchen is her husband, Edie Muir. He’s a sort of useful adjunct. He grooms the pony, potters about the house, and nods over the fire. He’s very little to do, but Tibbie is a marvel of activity.”
“I hope she’ll forgive me for coming,” I said.