Miss Whimple lived a considerable distance beyond the then city limits. She occupied what had once been a farm-house, solidly built, and surrounded by several acres of land, including a small but excellent orchard. She owned a good deal of land in the neighbourhood, now one of Toronto's finest residential districts.
As William turned into the driveway leading to the front entrance, he was hailed by a man who was cutting the grass around one of the flower beds. "What'll you be wantin', laddie?" said the grass-cutter.
"To see Miss Whimple," answered William readily.
"And what for?"
William eyed the questioner, and with a gleam of mischief in his eyes, replied quietly, "On business."
"Aye—business, they'll all be saying that. She'll no see ye, ma lad, so you better be tellin' me, and maybe I'll be able to tell ye the way to be goin' aboot it."
"What part of Scotland did you come from?" asked William sweetly. The man glowered at him—the boy went on, "You could never deny you came from Scotland, the thistles is just stickin' out on you in bunches."
"You're a verra cheeky young——" began the man, but William cut him short with, "Save your breath, Scotty, I know more about myself than you can ever guess." And then changing his tone, he asked sharply, "Do you own this place?"
"Miss Whimple is the owner, young man, and I'm thinking——"
"Don't—don't get to thinkin'. It'll stop the grass-cutting if you do; but seeing that you don't own the place I guess it's no good asking you what you'll take for it——"