canna be surpassed at ony money. Then comes the little house where
Will'am Beattie's sister Mary died in May, and there wasna a bonnier

woman in Fife. Next is the cottage with the pansy-garden, where the
lady in the widow's cap takes five-o'clock tea in the bay-window,

and a snug little supper at eight. She has for the first, scones
and marmalade, and her tea is in a small black teapot under a red

cosy with a white muslin cover drawn over it. At eight she has more
tea, and generally a kippered herring, or a bit of cold mutton left

from the noon dinner. We note the changes in her bill of fare as we
pass hastily by, and feel admitted quite into the family secrets.

Beyond this bay-window, which is so redolent of simple peace and
comfort that we long to go in and sit down, is the cottage with the

double white tulips, the cottage with the collie on the front steps,
the doctor's house with the yellow laburnum tree, and then the house

where the Disagreeable Woman lives. She has a lovely baby, which,
to begin with, is somewhat remarkable, as disagreeable women rarely

have babies; or else, having had them, rapidly lose their
disagreeableness--so rapidly that one has not time to notice it.

The Disagreeable Woman's house is at the end of the row, and across
the road is a wicket-gate leading-- Where did it lead?--that was

the very point. Along the left, as you lean wistfully over the
gate, there runs a stone wall topped by a green hedge; and on the

right, first furrows of pale fawn, then below, furrows of deeper
brown, and mulberry, and red ploughed earth stretching down to

waving fields of green, and thence to the sea, grey, misty,
opalescent, melting into the pearly white clouds, so that one cannot

tell where sea ends and sky begins.
There is a path between the green hedge and the ploughed field, and

it leads seductively to the farm-steadin'; or we felt that it might
thus lead, if we dared unlatch the wicket gate. Seeing no sign

`Private Way,' `Trespassers Not Allowed,' or other printed defiance
to the stranger, we were considering the opening of the gate, when

we observed two female figures coming toward us along the path, and
paused until they should come through. It was the Disagreeable

Woman (although we knew it not) and an elderly friend. We accosted
the friend, feeling instinctively that she was framed of softer

stuff, and asked her if the path were a private one. It was a
question that had never met her ear before, and she was too dull or

too discreet to deal with it on the instant. To our amazement, she
did not even manage to falter, `I couldna say.'

"Is the path private?" I repeated.
"It is certainly the idea to keep it a little private," said the

Disagreeable Woman, coming into the conversation without being
addressed. "Where do you wish to go?"

"Nowhere in particular. The walk looks so inviting we should like
to see the end."

"It goes only to the Farm, and you can reach that by the highroad;
it is only a half-mile further. Do you wish to call at the Farm?"

"No, oh no; the path is so very pretty that--"
"Yes, I see; well, I should call it rather private." And with this

she departed, leaving us to stand on the outskirts of paradise,
while she went into her house and stared at us from the window as

she played with the lovely undeserved baby. But that was not the
end of the matter.

We found ourselves there next day, Francesca and I--Salemina was too
proud--drawn by an insatiable longing to view the beloved and

forbidden scene. We did not dare to glance at the Disagreeable
Woman's windows, lest our courage should ooze away, so we opened the

gate and stole through into the rather private path.
It was a most lovely path; even if it had not been in a sense

prohibited, it would still have been lovely, simply on its own
merits. There were little gaps in the hedge and the wall, through

which we peered into a daisy-starred pasture, where a white bossy
and a herd of flaxen-haired cows fed on the sweet green grass. The

mellow ploughed earth on the right hand stretched down to the shore-
line, and a plough-boy walked up and down the long, straight furrows

whistling `My Nannie's awa'.' Pettybaw is so far removed from the
music-halls that their cheap songs and strident echoes never reach

its sylvan shades, and the herd-laddies and plough-boys still
sweeten their labours with the old classic melodies.

We walked on and on, determined to come every day; and we settled
that if we were accosted by any one, or if our innocent business

were demanded, Francesca should ask, `Does Mrs. Macstronachlacher
live here, and has she any new-laid eggs?'

Soon the gates of the Farm appeared in sight. There was a cluster
of buildings, with doves huddling and cooing on the red-tiled

roofs,--dairy houses, workmen's cottages, comely rows of haystacks
(towering yellow things with peaked tops); a little pond with ducks

and geese chattering together as they paddled about, and for
additional music the trickling of two tiny burns making `a singan

din,' as they wimpled through the bushes. A speckle-breasted thrush
perched on a corner of the grey wall and poured his heart out.

Overhead there was a chorus of rooks in the tall trees, but there
was no sound of human voice save that of the plough-laddie whistling

`My Nannie's awa'.'
We turned our backs on this darlingsolitude, and retraced our steps

lingeringly. As we neared the wicket gate again we stood upon a bit
of jutting rock and peered over the wall, sniffing the hawthorn buds

with ecstasy. The white bossy drew closer, treading softly on its
daisy carpet; the wondering cows looked up at us as they peacefully

chewed their cuds; a man in corduroy breeches came from a corner of
the pasture, and with a sharp, narrow hoe rooted out a thistle or

two that had found their way into this sweet feeding-ground.
Suddenly we heard the swish of a dress behind, and turned,

conscience-stricken, though we had in nothing sinned.
"Does Mrs. Macstronachlacher live here?" stammered Francesca like a

parrot.
It was an idiotic time and place for the question. We had certainly

arranged that she should ask it, but something must be left to the
judgment in such cases. Francesca was hanging over a stone wall

regarding a herd of cows in a pasture, and there was no possible
shelter for a Mrs. Macstronachlacher within a quarter of a mile.

What made the remark more unfortunate was the fact that, although
she had on a different dress and bonnet, the person interrogated was

the Disagreeable Woman; but Francesca is particularly slow in
discerning resemblances. She would have gone on mechanically asking

for new-laid eggs, had I not caught her eye and held it sternly.
The foe looked at us suspiciously for a moment (Francesca's hats are

not easily forgotten), and then vanished up the path, to tell the
people at Crummylowe, I suppose, that their grounds were invested by

marauding strangers whose curiosity was manifestly the outgrowth of
a republican government.

As she disappeared in one direction, we walked slowly in the other;
and just as we reached the corner of the pasture where two stone

walls meet, and where a group of oaks gives grateful shade, we heard
children's voices.

"No, no!" cried somebody; "it must be still higher at this end, for
the tower--this is where the king will sit. Help me with this heavy

one, Rafe. Dandie, mind your foot. Why don't you be making the
flag for the ship?--and do keep the Wrig away from us till we finish

building!"
Chapter XVII. Playing Sir Patrick Spens.

`O lang, lang may the ladyes sit
Wi' their face into their hand,

Before they see Sir Patrick Spens
Come sailing to the strand.'

Sir Patrick Spens.
We forced our toes into the crevices of the wall and peeped

stealthily over the top. Two boys of eight or ten years, with two