He had informed himself in Forfar. He knew that the place was owned and lived in by a lady of the name of Flemington, who was the grandmother of the young man from whom he had lately parted. He had learned nothing of her character and politics because of the seclusion in which she lived, and he stared about him on every side and scanned the house for any small sign that might give him a clue to the tastes or occupations of its inhabitant. Whilst he was so engaged the front-door opened and the sound sent all the pigeons whirling from the roof into the air in flashes of grey-blue and white. Madam Flemington stood on the top step.
The beggar’s hand went instinctively to his bonnet. He was a little taken aback—why, he did not know—and he instantly abandoned his plan of an emotional description of Archie’s plight. She stood quite still, looking down at him.
Her luxuriant silver hair was covered by a three-cornered piece of black lace that was tied in a knot under her chin, and she wore the ‘calash,’ or hood, with which the ladies of those days protected their headdresses when they went out. A short furred cloak was round her.
She considered Wattie with astonishment. Then she beckoned to him to approach.
“Who and what are you?” she asked, laying her hand on the railing that encircled the landing of the steps.
That question was so seldom put to him that it struck him unawares, like a stone from behind a hedge. He hesitated.
“A’ve got news for yer leddyship,” he began.
“I asked your name,” said Madam Flemington.
“Wattie Caird,” replied he. “Skirling Wattie, they ca’ me.”