BOOK II

ACCORDING TO BARRIE

I

When the Great Surprise happened, Mr. Norman and I had just been having

a very nice talk. I'd never expected to know a real author, and of

course I wanted to talk about him, but he would talk about me instead.

He asked me questions in quite a different way from his sister's, though

I can't put the difference into words. I can only feel it. I know his

way made me want to answer him, and hers made me want to slap her. That

is queer, because she was not rude, but soft and gentle.

Among other things that Mr. Norman teased me to tell, was about the

silly stories which I've always been scribbling secretly ever since the

time when I had to print because I hadn't learned to write. He said that

he would like to see them, but I told him they were torn up, even the

last one, which I stuffed into the chimney in my room before I ran away

from Grandma's. Then he said I must write another, and he would help me.

I _was_ excited when he went on to say that people who took to writing

like ducks to water when they were almost babies, without any one

advising them, generally had real talent. This made me wild to begin

writing again at once, and I envied him because he and Mrs. West had

planned out a story all about their motor trip in Scotland. I thought it

would be the greatest fun to write of things that were actually

happening; but he explained that he wasn't going to bring in the real

people or what they did or said, only the scenery and perhaps a few of

the adventures, glorified a little. I told him that I should enjoy even

more writing things exactly as they were in life; then he argued that if

one did it in that way it wouldn't be a story, but a kind of diary.

Perhaps this _is_ a kind of diary, but I feel as if I must write it,

especially as, because of what happened while we were talking, Mr.

Norman's story can't be written after all. At least it can't be written

about this trip and this beautiful car.

That prim maid Moore, who looks as if she'd had a rush of teeth to the

head, minced to the door of the summer-house where we were sitting, and

called us to luncheon. Of course that interrupted our conversation, but

Mr. Norman said it must be "continued in our next," like a serial story

and we'd make the most of our time between Carlisle and Edinburgh.

"You'll let me help you all I can, won't you, Miss MacDonald?" he asked.

I said "Yes," and thanked him; and then he exclaimed, "Let's shake hands

on the compact."

I didn't know precisely what a compact was, but I shook hands, because

most things which begin with "com" are pleasant. Just as we were giving

the last shake, Mr. Somerled appeared, and I felt myself getting red,

because his eyes looked so blue and fierce, as if he were vexed about

something.

"We're striking a bargain," Mr. Norman explained. "Miss MacDonald has

promised to let me help her up the ladder of fame as an author. How many

days are you going to give us together in your motor-car?"

"My dear chap, I'm sorry to tell you that Mrs. West and I have just had

a row," said Mr. Somerled, "and she's backed out of the trip."

I've always laughed when I've heard or read the expression, "his face

fell"; but faces do fall. Mr. Norman's chin seemed suddenly to grow

inches longer. "Backed out of the trip!" he echoed, as if he couldn't

believe his ears.

"Yes. I asked her to reconsider, but made a mess of it. I fear there's

no hope that she'll change her mind. She says you and she will take your

trip alone."

I quite wished that he'd invite Mr. Norman to break off from his sister,

but he didn't. Perhaps that would not have been etiquette. I don't know

anything about such things. The etiquette book Heppie lent me to read

once was too uninteresting, worse than Hannah More.

Mr. Norman's face went on falling. His sister would not have been

complimented if she had seen it.

"In fact," Mr. Somerled added, "I'm afraid this is good-bye. Mrs. West

doesn't expect"--he stopped and laughed a little--"doesn't expect Miss

MacDonald and me to stay to luncheon."

I see now that it was horrid of me, but I clapped my hands, and cried

out, "How thrilling!" Mr. Norman turned red. I hope he didn't think I

was ungrateful. It wasn't that at all which made me clap my hands. It

was being coupled with Mr. Somerled in the row, and wondering what was

going to become of us both.

"It's like Adam and Eve being turned out of Paradise, by the Angel with

the Flaming Sword," I said, to make things better; and perhaps it did,

for they both laughed this time, but it was very queer laughter. If

Heppie had heard _me_ laugh like that, she would have accused me of

hysterics. But it was good for Mr. Norman, and stopped his face from

falling. He stammered regrets and apologies and suggestions, and Mr.

Somerled seemed upset, too, though not excited, like Mr. Norman and me.

He went into the house to collect our belongings, and I _was_ thankful

not to meet Mrs. West. She kept out of our way, but one of the servants

helped Mr. Somerled, who has no man to look after him, and another, not

that horrid Moore, offered to help me, but I said, "No, thank you." I

knew she would make fun of my bundle to the others afterward. All the

maids have stick-out teeth in this house, as if they'd been engaged on

purpose, and somehow it makes them seem formidable, like having ogresses

to do your packing.

Fancy Mr. Somerled, in the midst of his worry, remembering that I might

want to give money to Mrs. West's servants! He doesn't seem the sort of

man who would think of little things like that, but I begin to see

already that it isn't easy to guess what he is like really, unless he

chooses to let one do so. As we were on the way to the house, he said to

me in a low tone, "Here's an installment of what I owe you for your

brooch," and quickly he slipped a lot of gold and silver into my hand,

making my fingers shut round the coins.

"But you haven't got the brooch yet," I whispered back.

"I'll trust you," he said, in an absent-minded way, as already his

thoughts had rushed off to something else. And no wonder!

I gave a ten-shilling piece to the maid, with a grand air which must

have impressed her, because she treated me almost respectfully after

that, and secretly smuggled down my ugly bundle to the front gate,

where, in a few minutes more, Mr. Somerled's big car came to fetch us

away. Some one must have been sent to fetch it, and there were a few

crumbs on the chauffeur's coat, which made me fancy he'd been called

away in the midst of his luncheon, poor man. He must have been

surprised, but he had that ineffable marble-statue look which I've

noticed on the faces of grand coachmen driving high-nosed old ladies in

glittering carriages through the streets of Carlisle. Heppie says that

the true test of a well-trained servant is to show no emotion in any

circumstances whatever; so I suppose this big chauffeur, whose name is

Vedder, must be very well trained indeed. He is a strange looking man,

but very smart, and, being a Cockney, carefully puts all his "h's" in

the wrong place. If he forgets to do this, he goes back and pronounces

the word over again. He travelled to America from London to be Mr.

Somerled's coachman years ago, and then he learned how to drive a

motor-car and be a mechanic, because he couldn't bear to have his master

tearing over the earth with any one else. Mr. Somerled told me all this,

coming from the railway station, when he was bringing me to Moorhill

Farm.

Mr. Norman saw us off, and was very cast down as Mr. Somerled's luggage

was put on the car, but he was so loyal to his sister, that he would not

say much except, "I'm sorry!" over and over again.

I was afraid that Mr. Somerled would drive (as he told me the night

before he liked driving his own car) and leave me sitting alone in the

immense gray automobile, which has a glass front and a top you can put

up or down. But to my joy he got in beside me, and let Vedder take the

wheel in those large, well-made hands which carry out the marble-statue

idea. I had no notion where we were going; and Vedder drove so slowly

that I guessed he was expecting further instructions.

As soon as we were safely away from the gate I asked the question

burning on my tongue: "You _won't_ take me to Grandma?"

"I thought you trusted me as I trusted you," was the only answer Mr.

Somerled condescended to make.

Suddenly I saw myself a selfish pig. "I do trust you," I insisted. "But

I _ought_ to want to go back of my own accord, rather than let you give

up--things--for me. I'm nothing to you----"

"You're Mrs. Ballantree MacDonald's daughter, and--er--a fellow-being."

"If it comes to that, I suppose a worm's a fellow-being. But this worm

has turned, and would as soon cross the path of a perfectly ravenous

early bird as go to its grandmother. So I won't do that, even for your

sake, though you've been so kind; but I wish you'd drop me at the

station where you found me, and let me travel to Edinburgh by train. I

can wait there for mother----"

"Nonsense!" he broke in; a word he seems devoted to, as he has already

used it several times to pound down some suggestion of mine as if he

were breaking it with a hammer. He has the air of a man used to getting

his own way with the world, anyhow with women, and I can't think it good

for him; though Mrs. West's one idea apparently is to do what will

please him, not fussily, but gently and sweetly; so that must be what

men like. I should pity him if he lived with Grandma! I suppose it is my

living with her for so long which makes me feel like going against

strong, dictatorial people, just to see what they will do. With him,

that plan would be exciting. It is ungrateful of me, but I long to

contradict him about something, it doesn't matter what, and try my

naughty little strength against his, like a headstrong, conceited mouse

pitting itself against a lion.

I had no inclination to contradict or fight with Mr. Norman. But he has

pathetic, wistful eyes, asking for kindness, whereas Mr. Somerled's look

bored with things, as if he needed waking up.

I thought these thoughts while he went on to remind me more gently, that

he'd promised to motor me to Edinburgh, and that he had quite a strong

weakness for not breaking promises.

"But I give you back this one unbroken, not even cracked," said I. "So

that's different."

"I don't choose to take it back," said he. "You'll humiliate me if you

refuse to go to Edinburgh in my car--with a competent chaperon, of

course."

"A chaperon! My gracious!" I couldn't help laughing. "Aren't you

chaperon enough--a great big, grown-up man?"

"I suppose you think me very old," said he; "and so I am, compared to

you; but I'm afraid--no, I'm _not_ afraid--to tell you the truth, I'm

extremely glad that I haven't come yet to the chaperon age."

"What is the chaperon age for a man?" I inquired.

"Seventy."

"And you won't be that for a long time," I added dreamily, wondering how

old he really was.

For an instant his eyes waked up thoroughly, and he looked as if he were

in a fury; then he burst out laughing. But his brown face was rather red

when he asked if I would mind mentioning my honest impression of his

age.

I thought a minute, and then said that perhaps he might be--well, nearly

thirty. He laughed again, and seemed relieved, but wanted to know if

thirty struck me as old or young. I didn't know what to answer, not to

be impolite, so I said presently that I had always thought of thirty as

being the year when you were not middle-aged yet, though anything that

happened to you _after_ your thirtieth birthday couldn't matter.

"Still," I went on, "you look young. Only, there's something important

and decided about you, as if you must have been grown up for a long

time."

"Not to deceive you, I'm thirty-four," he said. "Now, no doubt, you'll

consider me a sort of Ancient Mariner. Perhaps that's all the better."

"Looking at you, I can't, even if it would be better," I had to confess.

"You're so alive--so strong, so--almost violent. I can't somehow imagine

that you've ever been younger, or that you can ever grow older."

Just then, when we'd forgotten the chaperon part of our conversation,

the car slowed down and Vedder made a kind of signal of distress. Mr.

Somerled put his head out through the open window, whereupon I think

Vedder must have reminded him that we were coming into town, wanting to

know what he was to do next. In came Mr. Somerled's smooth black head

again, and he glared at me in a kind of amused desperation. "You must

know some one who would act as your chaperon for a few days, at a good

salary--sent home by train when we'd done with her. That ex-governess or

nurse of yours, you told me about."

"Oh, Heppie wouldn't be found _dead_ leaving Grandma," said I. "Not that

she loves her. Neither does a mouse love a cat, when it won't try to

escape. It keeps running back and being polite with its eyes bulging

out."

"There must be somebody else. Think. Has your grandmother any friends?"

"Dear me, no. She'd scorn it. Only a few acquaintances and a relation or

two, whom she snubs when they come to see her and scolds if they don't.

They wouldn't--but, oh, perhaps Mrs. James _might_. I wonder?"

"Where does Mrs. James live?"

I told him quickly that it was in a little sort of cul-de-sac street

called Flemish Passage, not far from English Street, where Heppie and I

sometimes look at the shops; and I was going on to say more about it and

about Mrs. James, but before I'd time to draw another breath, Mr.

Somerled grabbed up a speaking tube and was talking through it. "Find

Flemish Passage near English Street, and I'll tell you where to stop,"

he addressed the back of Vedder's massive head.

"It's an old curiosity shop, and she keeps it," I hurried to explain,

but that didn't seem to matter to Mr. Somerled.

"I hope you like the lady's society," was all he said.

"I love her, and she's an angel, but a very peculiar angel; and Grandma

doesn't call her a lady, so perhaps you won't," I broke the news to him.

"I daresay your grandmother wouldn't have called my mother a lady," he

replied coolly. "She was an angel, and the cleverest, most gracious

woman I ever knew or expect to know." I did like him for saying this.

And something told me that, in spite of his domineering way with me, he

wouldn't be one to put on high and mighty airs with Mrs. James, as

Grandma does.

English Street, of course, is the main street of Carlisle and runs north

to William Rufus's Castle that stands looking over the moors toward the

border, eight miles away. Grandma never would let Heppie take me into

the Castle, because it's turned into barracks now, and swarming with

soldiers. She said that her father called soldiers Men of Blood, and

seemed to think that ought to put me off from wishing to go in, but it

didn't a bit, rather the other way round. I love soldiers in books, and

should like to meet some.

It was near the old Citadel of Henry VIII, where the towers have been

turned into court-houses, that we had to turn off, and it is there that

English Street really begins. It didn't take Vedder long to find Flemish

Passage--which Mrs. James says is named after the Flemish masons William

Rufus brought over to make the Castle, men who settled down afterward to

live in Carlisle. Maybe there were Flemish houses on the spot in those

days--who knows? I love to think there were; and though there isn't a

trace of anything half so ancient as William, Flemish Passage can't have

changed much from what it must have been in the Middle Ages. Even the

people who live there are mostly old, and as the big gray car turned

into the small, quiet cul-de-sac, elderly heads appeared at antique

windows of all the medieval houses. I should think nothing so exciting

had happened in Flemish Passage at all events since Carlisle surrendered

to Prince Charlie. The car looked enormous, as if it were a dragon

swelling to twice its size in rage because it knew there would be no

room for it to turn round when it wanted to get out.

Mrs. James house used to be like the others till she had the two front

windows thrown into one, and took to keeping a shop. The way she

happened to do that was just as it was with Miss Mattie in that darling

"Cranford" I found with father's name in it; only Mrs. James, of course,

was married and Miss Mattie wasn't. I wanted to tell Mr. Somerled about

her, and how her husband, a distant cousin of Grandma's, was the doctor

that couldn't cure my father. Mrs. James herself wasn't a cousin, and

wasn't even of the north, so Grandma never thought of her, as she has no

opinion of southern people. Mrs. James was Devonshire, and (in Grandma's

eyes) a _mésalliance_ for Richard James. He lodged with the Devonshire

girl's mother when he was a medical student in London, Heppie told me

once; and even Heppie puts on superior airs with Mrs. James, whom she

considers a feckless creature. I have an idea Heppie knew the doctor

before he met his wife, and he was her One Romance; so naturally she

thinks the "James Mystery" wouldn't have happened if he had married her

instead. Of course, though, it could never have occurred to _any one_ to

marry Heppie, whereas Mrs. James must always have been a darling and

very pretty in her fluffy way. Grandma says the "James Mystery" (as it

seemed it was called in the newspapers at the time, when I was very

small) never was a mystery except for "fools or sensation-mongers." I

heard her speak those very words to poor Mrs. James, who has always

called on Grandma once a month, ever since I can remember, though

Grandma does nothing but make herself disagreeable and say things to

hurt Mrs. James feelings, knowing that her one dream of happiness is in

believing her husband still lives.

Nobody else believes this, Heppie has told me; because Doctor James had

a motive for not wishing to live, "apart from any disappointment in his

home life." After he didn't cure my father there was another case which

he was supposed not to have understood. I don't know exactly what

happened, for my questions weren't encouraged; but he operated on the

person when he ought not, or else didn't operate when he ought; anyhow

the person was a high personage, so there was trouble, and then might

have been a legal inquiry if Doctor James hadn't gone one day to

Seascale, and from there disappeared. His hat was found on the beach,

and a coat, and though his body was never recovered, all the world

except his wife felt sure he had drowned himself on purpose. As for her,

she is perfectly certain that he is alive, and she hopes to this day

that some time he will come to her, or else send for her to go to him.

He disappeared or died, or whatever it was, seventeen years ago when I

was almost a baby; and he and Mrs. James weren't so very young even

then: but because he admired what he called her "baby face," she has

always tried desperately to keep her looks that he mayn't find her

changed when (she doesn't say "if") they meet again. It is the most

pathetic thing I ever heard of, because in spite of all the troubles she

has had, enough to make her old twice over, she has never lost gayety or

courage. Grandma and Heppie think it wicked and frivolous of her not to

"bow to God's will," but I think she is a marvel, and I love every

little funny way and trick she has.

I don't know Mrs. James well enough to call her my friend, because I

don't often see her, and we've never been left alone together when she's

called on Grandma; Heppie took me to her house only once, just after

she'd grown poor through the breaking of some savings-bank, and turned

her little drawing-room into an antique shop. I fancy Heppie wanted to

go simply to spy out the nakedness of the land and satisfy curiosity in

Grandma. But I've never forgotten that day, and how brave and bright

Mrs. James was, selling off the pretty old things which she had loved:

heirlooms of her family and her husband's; old clocks, old vases, old

ornaments, and jewels, old china and glass, old samplers and bits of

embroidery or brocade, old furniture, old pictures and transparencies,

and everything of value except old books, which she adored because his

library had been her husband's life. It was clever of her, I think, to

group the treasures together in the little drawing-room with its oak

panelling and beams, its uneven, polished oak floor, and the two

diamond-paned windows which she enlarged and threw into one. It is not

like a shop, but just a charming room crowded full of lovely things, and

every one of them for sale, even the chairs. She wrote cards of

advertisement which the hotel people let her pin up in their halls or

offices, because they respected her pluck, and had liked Doctor James.

Americans and other travellers saw the advertisements, and went to her

house; so by and by Mrs. James made a success with her experiment. When

most of her own antiquites were sold, she could afford to buy others,

just as good or better, to take their places. She never made big sums of

money; but maybe that was because she had debts of her husband's to pay

off, which she kept secret. Besides, she is so generous and kind that

she would give good prices for things in buying, and ask small ones in

selling.

"Mrs. James: Antiquities;" it says in gilt letters over the door on

which you can still see the mark left by the professional name-plate of

Doctor James. His wife had that taken off before she opened her shop,

because she felt that her going into trade might seem to discredit "his

honoured name."

That is her great watchword: "his honoured name." I've often heard her

repeat it to Grandma, who invariably snorts and says something to

dishearten or humiliate the poor humble darling who thinks so much of

the Hillard and James families, and so little of herself.

Opening the door, which rings a bell of its own accord, you walk

straight into the drawing-room, or hall. There's an oak screen which

cuts off your view to the left, and gives an opportunity for surprises;

and straight ahead at the back is a lovely old carved stairway, that

goes up steeply, with two turns and two platforms, where stand tall,

ancient clocks. Behind this hall or drawing-room, turned into a shop, is

a tiny parlour, where Mrs. James spends her few free hours, eats her

tiny, lonesome meals, and faithfully reads nearly every book in her

husband's library, so that she may be an intelligent companion for him

if he comes back. The walls of the parlour are covered with his books,

on shelves reaching up nearly as high as the low-beamed ceiling. Behind

the parlour is the kitchen, which looks into a tiny garden with one

lovely apple tree in it; and a back stairway almost like a ladder leads

to what used to be servants' rooms. Now Mrs. James sleeps in one; and

next door is the young girl, rescued from something or other by the

Salvation Army, who is her only servant. The front part of the

"upstairs," which you reach by the lovely staircase in the shop, is

occupied by a curate-lodger. Heppie says Mrs. James can afford to give

up having a lodger now, and that she keeps him on only because she's

stingy; or else because she thinks it "distinguished" to have some

connection with "Church." But I'm sure it's really because she's so kind

and good-natured, that she can't bear to turn the curate away from rooms

which have been his only home for years.

She _was_ surprised to see me get out of an automobile with a man! I

know she did see me get out, because she opened the door herself,

exclaiming in her soft Devonshire voice, which has never been hardened

by the north, "Why, Barribel, my _dear_ child, can I _believe_ my eyes?"

She throws emphasis on a great many words when she talks, which Heppie

says is gushing, and not reserved enough for a true lady; but I like it

when Mrs. James does it, because it sounds cordial, and more interested

in you than any other person's way of talking which I ever heard.

I introduced Mr. Somerled, and hurried in the next breath to explain

that he was a MacDonald, because that made him seem like a relation, and

she wouldn't think to begin with that I was with a perfect stranger. But

as soon as I said "Somerled," she knew all about him, not only the

history of the first Somerled, which, of course, she _would_ know, but

that this one was a great celebrity. _I_ shouldn't have known that, if

Mr. Norman hadn't mentioned it: and Moore with the teeth told me, too,

that she'd heard Mrs. West say he was "a millionaire." I'm not sure if

Mrs. James knew about the millions, and even if she did, they wouldn't

seem half as important to her as his pictures, which she began to chat

about. Of course they're not as important, because anybody can have

millions by accident, but they can have genius only from what they are

in themselves. I felt more than ever how wonderful it was that he should

be so good to me; a person so flattered and run after; but all the same

I _couldn't_ make myself feel in awe of him. He seemed to me just a Man:

and I wanted as much as ever to see what he would do if I took my own

way and went against him.

Mrs. James invited us into the house in her cordial, emphatic way, while

our coming and our being together were still mysteries which must have

puzzled her wildly. I saw by the blue flash in Mr. Somerled's eyes that

the artist in him admired the shop-drawing-room, and I thought from his

manner that he had taken a fancy to Mrs. James herself. I am so used to

her looks, from seeing her once a month ever since I can remember, that

I can hardly judge what she is like: and I suppose she _is_ peculiar.

But why shouldn't she try to keep young for the sake of her dream? I

think it's romantic and beautiful, and all one with her efforts to

become the intellectual equal of her lost husband. Grandma and Heppie

sneer after Mrs. James has been and gone, at the long words she uses,

and condemn her for wanting to deceive people into thinking she's much

younger than she is. But that is because they've no romance in them, and

can't understand her true motive.

Her figure is like a young girl's, though perhaps a little stiffer and

less rounded. She is short, and has the tiniest waist in the world, so

tiny that it must hurt her to breathe, but that is her chief pride,

because "the doctor" (as she always calls him) fell in love at first

sight with her slender waist; and she has never let it measure an inch

more than it did then. A big man could span it with his hands. Perhaps

Doctor James could. She dresses her hair now as he liked best seventeen

years ago, though the fringe looks old-fashioned and odd. Grandma says

her hair is bleached, otherwise it couldn't have kept its yellow colour

at her age, forty-five. But it shines and is a lovely golden. She takes

the greatest pains in doing it, too, even when she's in a hurry on a

cold winter's morning, because she's never sure "the doctor" mayn't

appear that day, to give her a surprise. It would be too bad if, after

all these years, he should walk in and find her not looking her best!

She has features like a doll's, with large dark blue eyes, and high

arched eyebrows which give her an innocent, expectant expression. Heppie

says she blacks them; but Heppie has no eyebrows at all, so it's

difficult for her to believe in other people's.

When Mrs. James came to meet us at the door, she had a ladies' paper in

her hand, open at a page where it told you in big letters, "How to be

Beautiful Forever," so I suppose it's true, as Heppie says, that she's

always looking for recipes to keep young. She had on a lavender muslin

dress, very becoming to her fair complexion, which would be perfect if

she hadn't a very few little veins showing in the pink of her cheeks,

and some faint, smiling-lines round her eyes, which you see only if you

stare rudely as Grandma does, to "take down Mrs. James's vanity."

Lavender was the doctor's favourite colour, and she invariably wears one

shade or another of it. She never would go into mourning for him, as

people thought she ought to do when he disappeared.

I explained everything, talking so fast that I got out of breath, while

Mr. Somerled walked round the room looking at the curiosities. I was

glad no customers came in to interrupt; but luckily there wasn't much

danger at that hour, as it wasn't yet half-past two, and people had

scarcely finished their luncheons. As I talked, she gave little

exclamations almost like the cooing of a dove; and the most desperate

thing in our story seemed to be, in her opinion, the fact that we hadn't

lunched.

She insisted on giving us eggs and apple-tart and coffee in her own

dining-room, and she let us come into the kitchen and help cook. Mr.

Somerled looked quite young and boyish. We all three laughed a good

deal. Not a word did Mr. Somerled say about my going to Edinburgh or the

chaperon business until we'd finished our picnic meal, and he had

selected several of the best and most expensive things in the shop for

himself. After that, how could Mrs. James refuse him what he called "a

great favour" even if she'd wished to say no, which she didn't. On the

contrary, she was enchanted. Everything had worked together to make her

going possible. The curate had gone off for a holiday, giving her

permission to use his two rooms if she liked. I could have them till we

started; and she would ask a friend from next door to attend to the

shop, a nice girl who often helped her, if she were ill or had to go

away on a "curiosity quest." "Just think!" she exclaimed, "I've never

been to Scotland, though it's only eight miles distant, and I've pined

to go all my life. You'll find that I've a good book-knowledge of the

country, if that's any use, for my dear husband's favourite pastime has

been the study of history. Since he--left Carlisle, I've devoted much

time to following his researches."

The long words do come so nicely from her pretty little mouth, and she

shapes them with such care, that they seem to issue forth one by one

like neatly formed birds being let out of a cage. She is making a

speciality of pronunciation, and what she sometimes speaks of as

"refined wording." She was a farmer's daughter in Devonshire.

It was arranged that the girl from next door should be called in at

once, in order that Mrs. James and I might go and buy things. I was rich

on the proceeds of the brooch; for Mr. Somerled counted out the rest of

the money on the parlour table; and Mrs. James abetted him in saying

that fifty pounds was not a penny too much to lend on such a treasure.

But it does seem wonderful! Mrs. James herself must have felt flush

after making such good sales, and her eyes lit at the thought of a motor

hat and coat--they seemed exciting purchases. But when Mr. Somerled

mentioned the fact that mother is one of the best-dressed women in the

world, the little woman looked frightened. "I shan't dare take the

responsibility of choosing an outfit for the child, then," said she

nervously. (I do wish people wouldn't call me "child," though it's nicer

from Mrs. James than Mrs. West!) "Supposing she shouldn't make the

correct impression? Won't you be persuaded to help us, sir, with your

advice about the most important articles?"

Somehow I feel that Mr. Somerled hates "sir" as much as I hate "child."

I expected him to make an excuse, that he knew nothing about such

things--or "articles," according to Mrs. James. But instead, he snapped

at the suggestion and looked as pleased as Punch. I suppose he doesn't

want me to be a fright and disgrace his car on the journey.

When Miss Hubbell had come in from the next house, smelling of some

lovely sort of jam which she and her mother had been making, off we

three went in the gray automobile, Mrs. James trying not to look

self-conscious and proud, nor to give little jumps and gasps when she

thought we were going to run over creatures.

It is many years since she has been to London. I think she was there on

her wedding trip and never since: and besides that expedition, Exeter

and Carlisle are her two largest cities: but, in order to impress the

great artist, she patronized Carlisle, saying we "mustn't hope for

London shops." I longed to catch his eye, because I'm sure he sees

everything that is funny; but it would have been horrid to laugh at the

kind darling, trying to be a woman of the world.

In the end, it was Mr. Somerled and I who chose everything, even Mrs.

James's motor coat and hat, for she was too timid to decide; and if she

had decided, it would have been to select all the wrong things. I had to

get my dresses ready-made, because of starting for Scotland next

morning, and it was funny to see how difficult Mr. Somerled was to

please. One would have thought he took a real interest in my clothes;

but of course it was owing to his artistic nature. We found a blue

serge--I wouldn't have believed, after my deadly experience, that blue

serge could be so pretty--and a coat and skirt of creamy cloth; and an

evening frock of white chiffon, I think the girl called it. Actually it

has short sleeves above my elbows, and quite a low neck, that shows

where my collar-bone used to be when I was thinner than I am now. It

seems an epoch to have a dress like that. It was Mr. Somerled who picked

it out from among others, and insisted on my having it, though, simple

as it looked, it was terribly expensive. Mrs. James thought I couldn't

afford it, as I had so many things to do with my fifty pounds, but Mr.

Somerled brushed aside her objections in that determined way he has even

in little things. He said that it would be money in his pocket, as an

artist, to paint me in this gown; and that I must sit for him in it. He

would call his picture "The Girl in the White Dress"; and as he'd show

it in London and New York and get a big price, of course he must be

allowed to pay for the dress. Mrs. James seemed doubtful about the

propriety, but he drew his black eyebrows together, and that made her

instantly quite sure he must be right. When she'd agreed to my having

the dress on those terms, she couldn't--as he said--stick at a mere hat,

so he bought me a lovely one to wear with the creamy cloth. He suggested

that I should keep it in the "tire box" while motoring--a huge round

thing on the top of the car.

"It is just like having a kind uncle, isn't it, my dear?" asked Mrs.

James. But I didn't feel that Mr. Somerled was the sort of man I could

_ever_ think of as a kind uncle, and I said so before I'd stopped to

wonder if it sounded rude. Luckily he didn't seem offended.

I am writing this in the curate's sitting-room upstairs in Mrs. James's

house. It is night, and we are to start to-morrow morning very early,

because I happened to mention that I'd never seen the inside of Carlisle

Castle, or put my nose into the Cathedral. Grandma does not approve of

cathedrals, and their being historic makes no difference. Mr. Somerled

said that we could visit both, and then "slip over the border." Oh, that

border! How I have thought of it, as if it were the door of Romance; and

so it is, because it is the door of Scotland. I am afraid it must be a

dream that I shall cross at last, to see the glories on the other side,

and find the lovely lady who to me is Queen of all Romance--my mother.

Still, I've pinched myself several times, and instead of waking up in my

old room at Hillard House each time I've found myself with my eyes

staring wide open, in the curate's room, which has a lot of books in it

and a smell of tobacco smoke, and on the mantelpiece Mrs. James's

wedding wreath as an ornament under a glass case.

Mr. Somerled has gone to a hotel; but he stayed to supper with us, and

Mrs. James brought out all her nicest things. It was much pleasanter

than supper last night at Moorhill Farm, though Mrs. West had lovely

things to eat. I am glad I shall never see Moore again! But I should

like to see Mr. Norman. I could feel toward him as if he were a brother.

But I don't know what to say about my feeling toward Mr. Somerled. I

think of him as of a knight, come to the rescue of a forlorn damsel in

an enchanted forest. After delivering the damsel from one

dragon--Grandma--he is going to take her away with another quite

different sort of a dragon; a well-trained, winged dragon, which people

who don't know any better believe to be only a motor-car.

II

I don't know how I dared with such a man, but I talked foolish fairy

talk to Mr. Somerled, _alias_ the Knight, this morning, and he answered

gravely in the same language. I should be doing him a great service, he

said, if I could lead him back to fairyland, because he used to know the

way, but had lost it long ago. He had given up the hope of finding it

again, and until the other day had feared that all the fairies were

dead.

"If you find fairyland, it ought to be while the heather moon shines," I

told him. "But I shan't have much time to help you look for it, because

in five days you'll be leaving me with mother, and travelling on alone.

You must search for the key to the rainbow wherever you go; because, you

know, it might be _anywhere_, and the light of the heather moon would

show it gleaming in the grass, or under a flower, or even in the middle

of the road before your eyes."

He looked at me in an odd, almost wistful way, and I couldn't look away

from him, though I wanted to, for it was as if he were reading my inmost

Me--using my eyes for windows, of which I couldn't draw the curtains.

"_You_ might find the key, if you haven't got it already," he said.

"Anyhow, I can't find it without your help, But no matter. Perhaps I

shouldn't know what to do with it if I did, now I've grown old and

disillusioned."

Then I answered, because I couldn't help it under the spell of his eyes.

"You're not old or disillusioned. You're a Knight: and knights who

rescue damsels are always young and brave."

Before I saw him, if any one had told me a person of over thirty was not

middle-aged, I should have thought it nonsense. But now I see that even

_thirty-four_ is not old. It seems exactly the right age for a man.

"If you dub me Knight, I christen you Princess," said he, laughing as if

embarrassed, yet pleased. "Because, I confess I wandered near enough to

the border last night, to think of you as a princess who'd been shut up

in a glass retort, as all really nice princesses were in my day, in

fairyland. Now the retort has been opened, though the princess believed

it to be hermetically sealed----"

"It was the knight who opened it!" I interrupted him. "But did you

_really_ go near to the border?"

"The border of fairyland."

"Oh! I meant Scotland. But, after all, to me it seems much the same

thing. Doesn't it to you?"

"I haven't thought of it so for a good many years," he said. "Yet it

might be----"

I lost the rest, because Mrs. James came in, ready to start. We had been

standing together in the little sitting-room at the back of the house

while she gave last directions to Miss Hubbell. And I had on my new

serge, of course, with a blouse more fit for an angel than Barrie

MacDonald; and a gray coat and a gray hood with a long gray veil

floating out from it--all the same gray as the car, and chosen to match.

I couldn't help thinking, when I put on the hood before the curate's

looking-glass, that in spite of a green crack across my face and one

purple splash on my eye (it's a very antique glass, not used to girls'

complexions) I really wasn't so bad. Oh, if only mother is pleased! But

of course all mothers must be pleased with their children. One reads a

great deal in books about mother's love.

We bought two small trunks yesterday, one for Mrs. James and one for me,

of the same gray colour as our cloaks, both made especially for a

motor-car: and Mr. Somerled has a gray trunk too, smaller than mine,

also a thing he calls a suit-case. This morning he brought us each a

present of a little gray handbag, fitted with brushes and combs and a

mirror, and tiny bottles for eau-de-cologne. My fittings look like gold,

though I suppose of course they are only gilded; and Mrs. James's are

silver. She thought it would hurt his feelings if we refused to accept

his presents, though she was brought up to believe that a lady must

never take anything from a gentleman except books, sweets, and flowers.

However, she says she has often found it difficult to conduct life

according to rules of etiquette, as there are so many complications

they've forgotten to put in.

It was only half-past eight when we started, for we wanted to see the

Cathedral and the Castle. We were going to the Cathedral first, and on

the way we had to pass a big motor garage which has always made my heart

beat just to see, whenever Heppie and I have come to town shopping. I

used to wonder what it would be like to sail through the wide doorway in

a car of my own. Poor me, in my "glass retort," with little chance, it

seemed, of escaping from the dragon to travel in any sort of mobile

except the pillow-mobile into which I used often, to jump at night, and

flash away to far-off countries of dreamland.

Now, poking its large nose out of that garage was a gray motor (but not

so nice a gray as ours) conducted by a wisp of a chauffeur. He was

driving two passengers, and I bounced on the springy back seat of our

car with surprise as I recognized them. Down went my head mechanically

in as polite a bow as if I hadn't been turned out of her house by Mrs.

West, though, when I realized what I was doing, I was afraid she might

pretend not to know me. It must make one feel such a worm to be ignored

when one has just grinned and ducked! But I needn't have feared. Mr.

Norman took off his cap as impressively as if I were really the princess

of the knight's fairy dream; and Mrs. West bowed, with a sweet, sad look

first at Mr. Somerled, then finishing up with me--just the reproachful,

yet resigned martyr-look a queen ought to give a crowd of rebellious

subjects on her way to the scaffold where their cruelty had sent her.

Of course, if I had to show this to Mr. Norman, and get him to criticise

my writing as he offered to do, I couldn't put in such things; so

perhaps it's as well I shall have to worry on alone.

Mr. Somerled, who was driving our car (with Vedder by his side, tooting

a musical horn), took off his cap as beautifully as Mr. Norman did,

without upsetting the steering, though there seemed to be a hundred

things and creatures of all descriptions in front of the motor's big

bright nose at that particular moment. I'd never realized until then

what a crowded, busy place Carlisle is; because it seems that you have a

different set of emotions and impressions especially for use in

motor-cars, and you _have_ to use them there, whether you like or not. I

suppose they lay quiescent in people for thousands of years, between the

epoch of exciting prehistoric beasts and automobiles; but now they come

into play often enough to make up for lost time. Not that I was afraid

in the car, even at first: only it did seem as if all the things that

moved on the face of the earth were aiming directly at us, to say

nothing of what we ourselves were doing to them. Luckily for me, I

trusted Mr. Somerled; and perhaps Mrs. James hadn't quite arrived at

that blissful state, or else she was naturally more timid, for she held

on so fast to the arm of the seat that she tore a glove, and had a

strained expression about her eyes and nostrils, though she beamed in a

painstaking way whenever she caught me looking at her.

"Who is that pretty blond lady and the handsome dark young man you just

bowed to?" she asked, when we had passed the gray car that was like a

bad copy of ours.

I told her that the man was Mr. Basil Norman and the lady was Mrs. West,

who had quarrelled with Mr. Somerled yesterday for some reason he

wouldn't explain, but probably because she couldn't be bothered with me.

"Poor thing, she looked ready to cry!" sighed Mrs. James. "By this time,

I dare say, she's sorry for what she did, and praying for a chance to

make up."

It would be Christian to pray for it too; but if making up means having

her in this car, I should have to pound the prayer into my heart like a

nail.

There was no luggage in the other car, so I guessed that they were

trying it, to see whether they might like to hire it for their trip.

And, in spite of Mr. Norman being so kind and different from his sister,

I couldn't help hoping that they might begin with another part of

Scotland from ours.

I kept on thinking of them as we wound through the traffic, though dear

Mrs. James continued to talk in an approving way, suited to my

intelligence, about Carlisle, and what a wonderful place it was, and how

proud we ought to be of it. How wide and well-built the new streets

were, and how interesting the old ones! How good for the complexion were

the winds that blew from the great moorland spaces beyond the town! I

hadn't thought much about all that myself, but certainly Carlisle is

romantic as a city, because in history you see how it has always been a

solid bulwark of the English, against which tides of invasion dashed

themselves in vain--a sort of watch-tower, whence England gazed out

across the border where danger lay in wait. I can't help turning my mind

to the romantic side of things, though it may be silly; but, after all,

it's just as real as the other side. Both are _there_, and you can

choose which you like to have for your own, as I said to Mr. Somerled.

By and by we came to the Cathedral. I had to confess that I'd never been

in, but I didn't mention Grandma's prejudice against cathedrals. I'd

never pined to see the inside as I should if the outside were tall and

graceful and gray, instead of dumpy and red--an ochre-red colour which

is interesting only when the sun shines on it, or when wet and sparkling

with rain, in the midst of its lovely old trees. I almost gasped with

joy and surprise, however, when we entered, for the interior is

wonderful. It is as if the builders had had in mind an allegory about a

plain body and a glorious soul.

Who would have thought that Mr. Somerled would remember so much history

of this northern country, after living, since he grew up, in America,

and making fame and fortune there? Mrs. James thinks that he even talks

like an American. She is a good judge, because more than half the

customers of her curiosity shop are Americans, and they chat with her

about all sorts of things. She reads her husband's history books, in

order to give him an agreeable surprise when he comes back, and the

knowledge she picks up is money in her pocket, because she can pour out

floods of information upon inquiring tourists. When she's kindly told

them all about the Romans in general and the Augustan Legion in

particular, and the Museum, and William Rufus's Castle; about the

Cathedral having been robbed of most of its nave to rebuild the city

walls in 1644, and Sir Walter Scott being married to his pretty French

bride there (or rather in St. Mary's Church, which was tacked on to it

in those days), and so on, Americans, and even canny Scots, can't sneak

out of her shop without buying something.

I loved the immense simplicity of that Norman nave, with its huge

crumpled arches crushed into curving waves by the long-ago collapse of

the foundations and the strain of centuries on the masonry. It was a

startling contrast to go from the Norman part into the choir, all a mass

of carving and decoration, with its vast east window of jewel-like

thirteenth-century glass, which Mr. Somerled pronounced finer even than

the windows of York and Gloucester cathedrals.

It seems that, although he hasn't been in Scotland since he left

seventeen years ago (vowing never to return until something or other

happened), he has been in England several times meanwhile, and travelled

all over Europe. He pretended that he wasn't at all excited about

crossing the border after these many years' exile, but when I cried out

that I couldn't believe him so commonplace and dull, he opened his eyes

wide, as surprised as if I'd boxed his ears. Mrs. James whispered that I

had been rude; and when I stopped to think, I realized how unlike Mrs.

West I had been. She is so gracious and complimentary to Mr. Somerled,

never saying anything she thinks he might dislike. But he heard Mrs.

James's whisper and said, "You must let her alone, please, my Lady

Chaperon, because I have a sort of idea she is going to dig me up by the

roots, and hang me up to air, and altogether do me a lot of good in the

end."

They both knew much more about the Cathedral than I did, but even I knew

something, because there was a book of father's which I had read. So,

when they'd explained that the beautiful pink columns and the painted

oak screens looked new because Cromwell's men whitewashed everything

when they stabled horses in the Cathedral, and the white wasn't scraped

off till comparatively lately, long after the Cathedral was a prison in

1745, I told them something they hadn't learned, or had forgotten. I was

proud to have a story about Bruce coming to Carlisle to take his oath of

allegiance, before the great repentance, and hating the Cathedral ever

afterward.

Even the Castle doesn't look as splendid from outside as it really is.

It's like an enormous box, a good deal battered and patched, containing

a kingdom's treasures. But of course I didn't know about the treasures

until I had been in.

I had set my heart on seeing the place, because, as I said to Mr.

Somerled, I may never come back to Carlisle once I begin to live with

mother and go about with her. It was a blow to be told at the entrance

gate where the public enters (and where there ought to be a moat, but

isn't) that the Castle was closed for repairs. Even a grown-up man like

Mr. Somerled, who has seen everything, looked disappointed; but I

suppose he couldn't fight his way in against the power of England; and

we should have turned ignominiously away if it hadn't been for Mrs.

James. "You are surely not aware," said she in the aristocratic,

long-worded way she has when she thinks of living up to the doctor (and

when she isn't in earshot of Grandma) "of the distinguished identity of

this gentleman. This"--with a wave of her tiny hand--"is the great

portrait painter, Somerled. I will not introduce him as 'Mr.,' for he is

as far above that designation as Shakespeare."

The poor wretch who had refused us was flabbergasted. "Excuse me a

minute, mum!" he muttered, and darted off to return with a young officer

before "the Great Somerled" had time to remonstrate. But, instead of

devoting undivided attention to the celebrity who must be appeased, the

officer looked at me, and we recognized each other. His face changed,

and I know mine did, because my cheeks felt as if some one had pinched

them. No wonder, because this had been my ideal for almost a year,

before I saw the photographs in shop windows of Robert Loraine, and I

had dreamed several times that I was engaged to him, with a gorgeous

diamond ring, and afterward that I was his widow in one of those sweet

Marie Stuart caps. It almost seemed as if he might see the cap in my

eyes, so I hurried to look down, and appear as calm as if I had never

met him in the street when out walking with Heppie. Once I dropped my

handkerchief, like ladies in books (only I did it on purpose, which they

never do if heroines, not villainesses), and he ran after us and picked

it up. That was, of course, the only time he ever spoke; but, though I

have cared not only for Robert Loraine but Henry Ainley since, I should

have known his voice anywhere. It was disappointing not to thrill; but

to be honest, I must admit that the voice sounded meaningless now,

compared with that of the Knight. Nevertheless, he was saying kind

things, offering to be our guide over the Castle and show us curiosities

that the "ordinary public" is not allowed to see.

Just as Mr. Somerled was thanking the officer (I soon found out that he

was a lieutenant, named Donald Douglas) I heard other voices behind me.

"Good gracious!" I had just time to think, "it's Mrs. West and Mr.

Norman," when they came round a screen of masonry, and were upon us. As

soon as they saw who we were they stopped, Mrs. West pale, with the same

martyred expression, which grew sweeter and sadder every instant. Mr.

Norman shook hands with us in a cordial but embarrassed way, and the man

who had refused to let us enter at first would have headed the newcomers

off, but Mr. Douglas stopped him.

"The Castle isn't open for visitors to-day," he said, "but I am making

an exception of Mr. Somerled's party, and as you are friends of his I

shall be delighted to include you."

"You're very kind indeed; but----" Mr. Norman had to begin answering

because his sister didn't speak, and only looked, looked, looked at "her

friend Mr. Somerled." Her brother awaited a cue until the pause grew

embarrassing, and then the Knight sprang to the rescue of another lady

in distress.

"We shall be delighted too, Mrs. West," he said.

That was probably what she wanted, for she beamed on the Soldier Man

(_my_ Soldier Man), and accepted his kindness. Mr. Douglas then put

himself by my side; and Mrs. West annexed Mr. Somerled, or he annexed

her. This left Mrs. James for Mr. Norman, and they hadn't been

introduced: but they began chatting at once.

Mr. Douglas seemed quite interested when I told him he was the first

soldier I'd ever known outside a book. He asked me if I thought I should

like soldiers, and I said yes.

Into the heart of the fortress he led us: into the keep, square,

ponderous, forbidding, cool even on a hot August day, and the best part

left now of the proud old fortress.

Mrs. West had a notebook, a little purple and gold one, like a

doubled-over pansy. As Mr. Douglas (laughing at himself because he was

not experienced as a guide) rattled off all the information he could

remember about Roman foundations--a sack by the Danes; William the

Conqueror, and William Rufus, and a British fort older than the time of

the Romans--she would scribble bits down hastily. But Mr. Norman took no

notes, and when he saw her writing, he looked sad, almost guilty.

"Did you say the round wall the Britons built is under the keep?" she

asked Mr. Douglas, who is, I feel, the kind of young man you would be

calling "Donald" before you knew what you were doing. "Are there only

three fortresses like this in all England? Do tell me what makes this

unique?" And she looked at him so prettily that if I'd been in his place

I'd have run to her like a dog and fawned at her feet. But he never

stirred, and simply answered across the other people, though she is so

much more intelligent than I--I, who couldn't describe properly what is

a bastion.

Our guide lit a candle for the dark dungeons, awful places with grooves

worn in the stone floors by the dragging feet of the prisoners, who

paced rhythmically up and down in the tether of their chains. On the

walls, covered with a cold sweat, as of deathless agony, we could see

the staples; and there was one spot of a dreadful fascination, where

Donald Douglas held his candle to show a trail of slimy moisture. Always

this weeping stone had been there, he said, no one knew why; and in old

days, when these dungeons bore the name of the "black hell," prisoners

tortured with thirst used, animal-like, to lick the oozing patch, making

many hollows round it like miniature glacier mills. After Culloden one

hundred and eighty men were thrown in during one night, and only fifty

were alive in the morning.

It made me feel very loyal to Scotland hearing stories like this--though

I was proud of the Castle too. And I loved the tale of Willie Armstrong,

Kinmont Willie, treacherously given up to Lord Scrope, for the worst

dungeon of all, by troopers who in taking him violated a border truce.

His escape was a real romance; and I am glad Lord Buccleugh, who saved

him, was an ancestor of Sir Walter Scott.

It was no use appealing to Lord Scrope, the Warden of the West Marches,

for justice, so Lord Buccleugh resolved to make a dash, and rescue the

raider, whom he loved. He got forty men (the English said two hundred,

but I know better), attacked the Castle, took it by assault, and carried

Willie, with fetters still dangling from his wrists, clear away across

the Eden and the roaring Esk, where none dared follow. When Queen

Elizabeth asked him afterward how he had dared, he said, "What is there

a brave man will not dare to do?"

It was not in the first dungeons that we heard the story of Willie

Armstrong, but later, in the part of the Castle which the public is not

allowed to see. We got there by climbing steep stairs into what are now

the soldiers' storerooms: and it's because they are storerooms that

they're kept so private. Once these rooms too were prisons; and behind

an immense door of oak, almost in darkness, are perfectly wonderful

wall-carvings cut into the reddish sandstone by prisoners: figures of

men and devils; scenes of history; initials woven into ingenious

monograms, Prince Charlie's among them, and hearts interlaced. I wish I

had lived in those days, and I wondered aloud if there were any girls

named Barribel then. Donald Douglas said yes; it was a very ancient and

well-loved Scottish name.

Stupid people in 1835 tore down most of the tower where Queen Mary was

imprisoned; but they were stopped before it was all gone, so luckily

there is a corner left, with a few graceful carvings on the outer wall.

And only three years ago a wonderful old table was found hidden away in

a dungeon which, it is thought, must have been used as her dining-table,

before she was whisked away from Carlisle to Bolton Castle in 1568. We

saw the table--very dark, very rough, looking like a prehistoric animal

turned to wood; and Donald Douglas said it was perhaps the oldest table

alive in England to-day--as old as King Edward's, and of the shape which

gave an idea later for Tudor tables. As he talked, I could almost see

Queen Mary sitting by this queer piece of furniture eating a poor meal,

and reading some book which might help her forget--perhaps idly

fingering the splendid black pearls which Mrs. James said were bought

last year in a tiny shop in Scotland, kept by descendants of a faithful

maid who went with her to the scaffold. And the shopkeeper, who thought

they were wax beads, lying in an old forgotten box, sold them for ten

shillings!

They found in another dungeon of the Castle, hidden in a crack of the

wall, a silver snuff-box with a withered finger in it, which must have

been a prisoner's "fetich." But it couldn't have brought him luck;

otherwise, if he'd been released, he would have taken it away with him.

Probably he swung on the hanging beam that sticks out over the window of

the old "condemned cell."

Next to Queen Mary's table, and perhaps the roof of the keep whence we

could see away over the border into mystery-land, I liked best of all

the Castle things a little deserted house in a courtyard, where Richard

III lived for a while, when he was young. Few people know about it, or

are taken to see it. But it alone would be enough to make the Castle

interesting if there were nothing else. Only a few empty, echoing,

half-ruinous rooms there are, with a queer chimney or two to give

comfort; but Richard's enemies made it a charge against him that he

lived in Carlisle Castle, splendidly housed in sinful luxury. What a

pity all the tales against him were not so little true as that!

III

We're in Scotland!

Cæsar could not have revelled in crossing the Rubicon as I revelled in

crossing the border. The very word rings out like the sudden sound of

bells, or the mysterious music that thrills one's blood in dreams.

Poor Cæsar was obliged to burn his nice boats, and think disagreeable

thoughts about the great responsibility he had taken, whereas we made

our crossing in a beautiful motor-car, and I had no responsibility

whatever. As for disagreeable thoughts, I had a few in England, but the

air of Scotland has chased them away. I see that they were silly as well

as selfish thoughts. I was so wicked that I hoped Mr. Somerled would not

make up his quarrel with Mrs. West. I was afraid that if he did the poor

princess he had rescued would be in his way, and that he would wish her

safely back in her glass retort. Now they _have_ made up, yet somehow I

don't feel in the way. He is so kind, and--yes, I must admit it--Mrs.

West is so tactful.

It seems that while Mr. Douglas and I were walking and talking together

in Carlisle Castle she apologized to Mr. Somerled. And outside the

entrance gates, when Mr. Douglas had shaken hands, hoping to "run across

us" when he gets leave for Edinburgh, Mrs. West walked up to me. "I've

begged Mr. Somerled's pardon," she said, with her pretty smile which

never changes, "and he has forgiven me, so you mustn't go on thinking me

an ill-natured, bad-tempered person, please; I'm not really. Only we

writing people have 'temperaments,' just as artists have--Mr. Somerled

himself, for instance. My brother scolded me, and I deserved it. He is

_so_ interested in you and your talent for writing, and wants to be your

friend. You won't blame him for my fault, will you?"

Of course I said no, and she held out her hand. When I'd put mine into

it, she pressed it gently, and before letting it go asked in a lower

voice if Mr. Somerled had told me why they quarrelled.

I shook my head emphatically as I answered that he hadn't said a word,

and she looked suddenly much happier. "That is _like_ him!" she

exclaimed--if one can exclaim in a whisper. "Well, we must forget what's

passed, and think of the future. Basil and I have hired a car now, and

will travel in it; but that will be all the better for our novel, as

I've just been telling Mr. Somerled, for we shan't have anything to

distract our minds from the scenery and our notebooks. I've begged him

to feel _no_ regrets: for now we're friends again, and we shall meet

constantly, no doubt, without any embarrassment, but a great deal of

pleasure. As for you, dear little girl, you mustn't feel that the cloud

we've passed through need shadow you. It had to do only with us

grown-ups. You have but to 'play dolls' and be happy, until you're

safely tied up in your mother's apron-strings. Not that she's likely to

have any!" And Mrs. West laughed, showing her white teeth that are

almost like a child's.

"Thank you," I said. "I mean to be happy--_very_ happy!"

She looked over her shoulder at Mr. Norman, as if giving him a signal,

and he came and talked to me. He said that he had hardly slept all

night, because he was so miserable over what had happened, for every

one's sake, but especially for his own, as he felt that a beautiful hope

had been snatched away from him. "It was the hope of a friendship with

you," he added. "But now we'll take it up just where it fell down, won't

we, finding that it isn't broken after all?"

While we were shaking hands I heard Mrs. West tell Mr. Douglas that I

was the daughter of Mrs. Ballantree MacDonald, and he seemed immensely

astonished, just as Mr. Somerled had, and Mrs. West and Mr. Norman.

I wonder why every one is so surprised? Can it be that actresses do not

often have children?

We bade each other good-bye, all of us, for Mrs. West and Mr. Norman are

going to see some places that apparently Mr. Somerled doesn't care

about; and it isn't quite certain when we shall meet again. "We shall be

like bad pennies, always turning up," Mr. Norman said; and Mrs. West

added quickly to Mr. Somerled, "But if we do, you mustn't feel that

we're tracking you down. The exigencies of authorship force us to be

conscientious sight-seers."

As she spoke, she gave her brother a look. I don't know what it meant,

but his face had a sad, tired expression, as if there had been some

dispute or argument between him and his sister, and he was sick of it. I

don't feel, somehow, that he's in a good mood for their story-writing

together just now, and I'm sorry for him. I believe he would rather be

motoring with us than with her. Perhaps they have had a difference of

opinion about the plot of their book, for he told me in the summer-house

that he'd suddenly got a new idea for a motor romance, and had lost

interest in the old one.

When we were ready to start away from Carlisle Castle, Mr. Somerled

condemned Vedder to sit at his feet; but the man seemed to take this

quite for granted, and not to mind in the least. "Would one of you care

to sit beside me?" he asked with so wooden an expression that it was

impossible to guess whether he would prefer Mrs. James or me to say yes.

Selfishly, I wanted him to prefer me, and because he didn't seem to

mind, I pretended not to hear, but went on talking to Mr. Douglas as if

he were the most important person in the world. Suddenly I felt a kind

of power over him, as if I were a grown-up woman in a book, and could

make men take an interest in me. Still, I could quite well hear Mrs.

James answer that she was too great a coward for the front seat, but she

was sure I would love it. Mr. Somerled turned to me then, without

speaking, as if to wait for me to answer, and I couldn't help thinking,

by the look in his eyes, that he _had_ wanted me, in spite of the wooden

expression. So I stopped in the midst of a word to Mr. Douglas, and

said, as meekly as a trained dove, that I should like to sit in front.

"What a pity you haven't got a congenial, romantic companion in the car,

like that lad," said the Knight, rather sharply, "instead of a war-worn

veteran of over thirty."

"Oh, I'd rather have you, because I feel already as if I'd known you

always," I explained. "And do you know, it didn't seem to me there was

anything romantic about Mr. Douglas, except his name."

"In that case, you are a little flirt," said he, driving fast. But when

I looked at him in the greatest surprise, he seemed sorry. "I take that

back," he said. "I really don't believe you know yet what the word

means, or what you've done to earn it. Are you contented with me as a

companion, or would you rather have Douglas, or Norman? I should really

like to know, out of sheer curiosity, so you needn't mind telling the

truth, for in any case you won't hurt my feelings."

"Why, but you are my Knight!" I said. And he asked no more questions

then about personal matters. We talked of the scenery, or he let me

talk, and said that it didn't disturb him in driving. He seemed quite to

take an interest in what I had to say, as if I had been an intelligent

person like Mrs. West. He didn't laugh at the high-flown ideas I've

collected about history, and frontiers between countries, but said that

my enthusiasms were contagious.

"I'd given up all hope of a thrill at crossing the border," he said. "I

thought it was too late. 'What's long sought often comes when unsought,'

you know--or rather, you don't know yet, and I hope you never will. You

are making me wonder if, after all, instead of putting off my homecoming

too long, I haven't chosen just the right moment."

I was glad to hear this, though I don't know even now how I managed to

give him that idea, unless by boiling with inward joy, and always

insisting that the world's not old, but young--a wonderful place, where

every flower and bird and every ray of sunlight is worth being born to

see.

I asked him not to tell me when we came to the border, because I hoped

to know it by instinct; and, as it turned out, I _did_ know. But I think

any one with eyes must have known.

Out from old Caer Luel, our road had crossed the Eden where Willie

Armstrong escaped, and ran on white and smooth toward the Solway, whose

sands glistened golden in the sun. The tide, which I'd read of as racing

like a horse at gallop, was busy somewhere else, and the river lay

untroubled, a broad, blue ribbon in the sandy plain where Prince

Charlie's men and horses once struggled and drowned.

Now I knew we must be in the Debatable Lands, the hunting-ground of the

border raiders, beautiful wild land, full of the sound of rivers, voices

of the Teviot and the Eden, the Ettrick and the Yarrow, singing together

and mingling with the voices of poets who loved them. Through the

country of dead Knights of the Road my live Knight of To-day drove

slowly, thinking maybe of dim centuries before history began, when the

Picts and Gaels I have read of fought together among the billowy

mountains; or of the Romans building Hadrian's wall against the "little

dark men"; or of the many heroes, Scottish and English, who had drenched

the heather with their blood since then; or perhaps of himself, and the

days of his boyhood when he said good-bye to bonny Scotland and went to

try his fortune in the New World. Whatever his thoughts may have been,

they made his face at first sad, then hard; I fancied that it was of

himself as a boy he thought, and of his father and mother, whom he will

not see when he goes home; so to bring him out of his brown study I

began to tell him a story Mrs. Muir had told me about the border. It was

the tale of the last Picts, and the secret of the heather ale. All, all

the mysterious little dark people had been swept away in a great

massacre by the Scots after centuries of fighting with the Romans; and

only a father and son were left alive. "Give me thy Pictish secret of

brewing heather ale," said the King of the Scots, when the pair were

brought before him, "and I may perhaps spare thee and thy son."

Then the dark Pict shut his eyes for a moment, and thought what to do.

He thought that the King would kill him and his son when he had their

secret; and he thought of the mead which had the power of wafting the

Picts to the Land of Pleasant Dreams.

From the bonny bells of heather,

They brewed a drink langsyne,

Was sweeter far than honey,

Was stronger far than wine.

They brewed it and they drank it,

And lay in blessed swound

For days and days together,

In their dwellings underground.

When he had thought with his eyes shut, the Pict said that he could not

tell the secret while his son lived, because of the shame he would feel

that his own flesh and blood should know him a traitor. He said this

because he believed they would kill the boy quickly without torture; and

the old man was right, for they bound his son hand and foot, and flung

him out to sea. "Now tell us the secret," they said. But the Pict only

laughed and answered, "Now I will not tell, because there is nothing

more you can do to hurt me." So they killed him quickly too, in their

rage, and the secret of the heather ale died with him.

Though he liked the story, the obstinate man argued that the last of the

Picts were not really killed in this or any other way; that they had

slowly died out as a race, and had married with the Scots, leaving a

strain of their blood in the land to this day. "You know," he said,

"that Somerled of the Isles married a Pictish princess, and so there's

Pictish blood in the veins of the MacDonalds, in your veins and in mine,

though I'm of cottage birth, and you are of the castle."

"I know that story of Somerled," I answered, "and how, hero though he

was, he got his princess by a fraud. It makes Kim seem more human."

"I wonder if his princess thought so?" said Somerled the Second.

"Why, of course she did," I answered him as if I were in her confidence.

When I was in Carlisle, and proud of my English birth, I used to like

reading about the great battle of the Solway Moss, where two hundred

English horsemen killed or took prisoners more than a thousand Scots

they'd chased into the bog; but now I've forgotten everything except

that I'm a Scottish lass; and though I'm of the Highlands, and these

were Lowland men, I don't, as I did, love to dwell upon the raid of the

Solway Moss. Still, I could not get it out of my head, and while I

pictured it, as I have to do most things, whether I wish or no, I saw a

bridge--a fine stone bridge, flung like the span of a petrified rainbow

across a small stream.

"That must be the Sark!" I gasped. "And we've come--we've come to the

border!"

"Good lass, to divine it!" said he. And how I liked his calling me a

good lass--it was better than princess!

We crossed the bridge slowly, lingering with half the car in England,

half in Scotland; then suddenly we sprang on gayly, with a rush ahead,

past the famous toll-house, which looked exactly like all its pictures.

"Ho for Scotland--our ain countree!" I cried; and though he did not turn

to me, I saw his profile looking flushed and glad.

"Now you should take back your own name of MacDonald again, from this

very minute of crossing the border," I said, when I had drawn in my

first long breath of Scotland. "Somerled's a grand name, yet it was only

the foundation of MacDonald. But I forgot! You've made your fame and

money as Somerled. Which do you love more--your Scottish blood or your

American fame and fortune?"

"Blood is stronger than water, and fame is running water," he said. "As

for the money, I've cared too much for it--at least for the power it

gave me. I didn't make the most of it with my pictures, and greed led me

to love it better than my true work. That's why I lost the way to

fairyland, little Princess. I buried myself under the 'shields and

bracelets,' and I buried my talents, such as they were. For a while

Somerled tried to deserve the great name he had chosen--but only for a

little while. When by accident he grew rich, he began to wallow. Not a

picture worthy of his boyish ambition has he painted for five years.

What he has done have been 'potboilers.' He forgot that he was an

artist, and wanted only to be a millionaire. Disgusting! Now that I've

told you this, do you--a MacDonald--bid me to take the name again at the

border, where, as a boy, I laid it down--long ago, with high hopes and

vows romantic enough to please even you?"

"Yes," I said, "I, a MacDonald, bid you to take up the name, and with it

all the old hopes and the old ambitions, as you come back into your own

land. Forget your silly money, and remember only that you're an artist

in a lovely motor-car. Won't _that_ make you happy--and a boy again?"

"Something is making me happy--and a boy again," he echoed.

IV

Any dull body who says that the minute you're over the border everything

is not changed, can have no eyes--nor nose, because even the smell is

different. It is--I'm sure it is--the adorable smell of peat. I have

never yet smelt peat, but this is like my dreams.

Oh, how beautiful everything was as we crossed the span of the stone

rainbow! A fresh wind had sprung up and out of the brilliant sunshine a

shower was spurting, like diamonds set in gold. I saw the dazzling sight

with eyes full of rain and curls.

"Here we'll find the rainbow key--on _this_ side the bridge, in the

keeping of the Border Saints or Wizards," said I; for the hills and

lowlands that rolled away to the making of Scotland had a colour as if

stained with the fadeless, dried rainbows of centuries. Mingled with

peat was the tea-rose scent of summer rain and of running water, which

is as the fragrance of fresh-cut melons. Clouds like huge white brooms

swept the sky, and surging suddenly round us was a wave of sheep,

charming, reserved, Scottish sheep with ears of a different shape from

the English kind, like those of exaggerated rabbits. They looked at us

with horizontal eyes of pale brass cut across with narrow slits of jet,

and their thick wool, wet with rain, sparkled as if encrusted with

diamond dust. With them was a collie, much collie-er than English

collies, with a pawky Scottish smile. Not that I know what pawky means,

but it seems a word I ought to use at once, now we are on Scottish soil.

Nobody need tell me that the first houses of Scotland have any

resemblance to the last houses of England. Maybe the country hasn't had

time to change much, just in crossing the bridge. I won't argue about

that. But the houses are as different from English houses as Scotsmen

are from Englishmen. Could you ever mistake a Scot for an un-Scot? No!

Our wide-apart eyes and our dreamy yet practical expression, our high

cheekbones, our sensitive, clear-cut nostrils, and the something

mysterious in our gaze which no one can explain or understand, not even

ourselves, is all our own. I have just found this out since crossing the

border. And am I not a MacDonald of Dhrum?

I can't say that the first Scots I met--men, women, or children--looked

like descendants of the robber hordes who used to make the Borderland

their home; yet I paid them the compliment to believe they were such.

And you never would dream that the great-great-grandchildren of raiders

could have built for themselves the mild, solid, self-respecting houses

these people have dotted along the road where King Arthur passed, and

where some of the most romantic battles of history have been fought. But

so it is. And there the houses are. The people have found a kind of

stone to build them with, which looks like pressed roses; and there are

door-stones and even gate-stones of such an incredible cleanness, that

some women must devote their whole lives to their service, as nuns do to

prayer.

Soon we came to the village and the post-office of Gretna Green,

bristling with picture post cards. There was the expected group of

whitewashed, one-story houses plastered with exciting notices: "Old

Priests' Relics," "Marriage Registers Kept," and delightful things like

that. So far, the scene was just what I'd imagined; but there was one

feature in the picture which made me feel I must be dreaming, it was so

surprising and extraordinary.

In front of the Blacksmith's Shop stood the quaintest vehicle out of a

museum. It was an antique chaise such as no one in the last five

generations can have seen except in an illustrated book, or an old

coloured print. Two handsome gray horses were harnessed to it, looking

quite embarrassed, as if they hated being made conspicuous, and hoped

that they might not be recognized by their smart acquaintances. As we

came gliding past, they turned away their faces, lest our

motor--christened by me Gray Dragon--should regard them with contempt.

By the horses' heads stood a gorgeous, grinning man, dressed in livery

such as postilions may have worn a hundred years ago. Talking to him was

a blacksmith of the same remote epoch, with knee-breeches showing under

a leather apron, a great hammer in his hand, and on his head a high,

broad-brimmed beaver hat balanced on a white wig. Not far off were two

men in modern clothes; and they were placing in position some kind of a

photographic camera.

When they saw that we meant to stop at the Blacksmith's Shop, they

brightened up, and seemed as much interested as if they had never before

seen an automobile.

"They're going to take photographs of a Gretna Green wedding of ancient

times, for a biograph show, evidently," said Sir Somerled MacDonald, and

quickly explained to the late prisoner of the glass retort the nature of

a biograph. "Rather a good idea that! Apparently they're waiting for

their chief characters, the bride and groom."

He was helping Mrs. James to get down from the car, and I had already

jumped out, for, of course, we wanted to visit the old house, and see

everything there was to see, in the place where Shelley (maybe!) and

hundreds of other famous people have been married. But before going in,

we lingered to stare at the chaise, which was rather like an immense

bathtub, the kind we used at Hillard House, where Grandma would have no

such new-fangled innovation as a bathroom. As we stood there, one of the

men with the camera came up, hovered undecidedly, and then said, with a

cough to draw attention to himself: "Excuse me, sir, but will you pardon

the liberty of my asking if you and the young lady will oblige us with a

great favour?"

Sir Somerled frowned slightly, with his millionaire manner, which is not

so nice as the other. "What is the favour?" he inquired.

"Why, sir," the man explained, "we're in a bit of a hole. You can see

we're here to reconstruct a runaway wedding for a cinema show. We

represent the North British Biograph Company, and we've been to a lot of

trouble and expense to get our props together. Pretty soon the father's

coach will be along, and we've got all we want except the two principal

figures. The bride and groom we engaged have failed to turn up. We can't

make out what's happened, but they ain't here, and we've searched the

neighbourhood without finding anything we can do with in their place.

The light's just right now, after the flurry o' rain, but by the look o'

the sky it won't last; and altogether it seems as if we'd have our

trouble for our pains unless you and the young lady'd consent to help us

out. If you'll allow me to say so, sir, in costume you'd be the Ideal

Thing."

For an instant Sir S. looked as haughty as a dethroned king. Then the

funny side struck him, and he laughed. "You flatter us," he said; "but

I'm sorry we can't do what you ask. Perhaps your people will turn up,

after all."

The poor man looked bitterly disappointed, almost as if he would cry,

and so did the other, who had been listening with enormously large red

ears like handles on a terra-cotta urn. Both men were wet with the rain,

which had fallen sharply and only just stopped as if to welcome us over

the border. The one who had spoken turned sadly away, without venturing

to urge his point (Sir S. isn't the sort of person strange men would

take liberties with), but in retreating he threw one agonized look at

me. I couldn't resist it.

"Oh, _do_ let's stand for the bride and groom!" I pleaded. And

foreseeing a battle the photographer hastily retired into the background

to let us fight it out. "It would be such fun. I should love it. You

know, I've always vowed to be married at Gretna Green, if at all. And

this would be next best to the real thing."

I gazed up at Sir S. as enticingly as I knew how, and there was a look

in his eyes that frightened me a little. I was afraid I had made him

angry; yet it wasn't a look of crossness. I could not tell what it

meant, but his voice in answering sounded kind. As usual, when he has

been particularly grave, he smiled that nice smile which begins in his

eyes and suddenly lights up his face.

"You'd better wait for the 'real thing' and the real man," said he. "Be

patient for a few years. You've plenty of time."

"I may _never_ get another such good chance," I mourned. "You _are_

unkind! It would amuse me so much, and it wouldn't hurt you."

"Do you think that's why I say no?" he asked. "You think I'm afraid?"

"Yes, I do," I insisted. "You're too proud to do what will make you look

silly--because you're the great Somerled."

"By Jove!" he said, and his face flushed up. "If you say much more I

will do it--and hang everything!"

"I _do_ say much more!" I cried. "_Much_ more--and hang everything."

"Very well, then," said he. "Your blood be on your own head."

"My head's red enough already!" I giggled. "Oh, what fun! You are good,

after all."

"_Am_ I good, Mrs. James, or am I bad?" he asked, turning for the first

time to her, as if he were half inclined to change his mind. But she

only smiled. "I can't see that there's any real harm," said she. "It

does seem a pity that these poor people should have come all this way

and spent all this money for nothing, don't you think so?"

"I wasn't thinking of them. I was thinking of Miss MacDonald."

"I'm thinking of her too," answered Mrs. James, as seriously as if she

were deciding something important. "If you don't mind on your _own_

account, why----"

He laughed. "Oh, as to _that_!----Well, come along, Miss MacDonald----"

"Barrie," I reminded him.

"Barrie! On with our wedding toggery, and let's be quick, if we don't

want an audience."

He called the photographer rather sharply, and put him out of his

suspense. "You must thank the ladies' kind hearts," he said. "They can't

bear to have your scheme end in smoke. Tell us what you want us to do,

and we'll do it--anything in reason. But you mustn't expect the bride to

show her face. She must keep it turned aside."

"That'll be all right," said the man, "though, of course, we should have

preferred----But after your great kindness we mustn't ask too much----"

"Certainly you must not," Sir S. caught him up. And then the other

photographer, who had darted across the road to the chaise on hearing

the good news, opened a bundle that lay on the seat, and hauled out the

contents.

Mrs. James began to be interested in the game, and the people who lived

in the houses were delighted that they were not to lose their hoped-for

excitement. Luckily, as it was lunching-time for most travellers, the

road was empty, and it seemed likely that we might finish our play

without spectators. The only moving things in sight at the moment,

except our own group, were one cat, two dogs, and a vehicle even more

quaint than the chaise in front of the Blacksmith's Shop. It was a coach

like Cinderella's, though not so pumpkiny. It was drawn by two nice

brown horses who might have begun life as rats. On one rode a postilion,

and out of a window leaned an old man in a tall hat and a brown coat

with brass buttons and a high velvet collar and ruffles at the wrist.

His hair was powdered, and he wore a white stock wound round his throat.

If we had met him on the road, without an explanation, we should have

thought that we had gone mad, or had seen a ghost; but now we knew him

for the bride's angry parent pursuing her relentlessly with a coach and

pair. It did sound odd to hear this fine old English aristocrat bawl out

in a common voice, "Ain't ye ready yet--what?"

One of the photographers ran along the road and explained and

gesticulated. The coach stopped at a distance. I flew into the

Blacksmith's Shop to put on my wedding things, and Sir S. disappeared

next door with clothes under one arm and a hat under the other. I should

think no bride and bridegroom ever dressed in such a scramble.

Mrs. James, dimpling and fussing, hustled me into a green brocade gown

which smelt of moth powder, and was so big that it went on easily over

my frock. Then came a purple silk cloak with wide flowing sleeves and a

romantic hood. One of the photograph men stood by to direct us; and when

Mrs. James was putting the hood over my head, he stopped her. "Madam, if

I might ask the young lady to take the pins out of her hair," he begged,

quite red with eagerness, "we shall get a great dramatic effect if it

tumbles down with the pulling back of the hood, just as her lover helps

her out of the chaise."

Her lover indeed! Sir S. would have glowered; but I laughed, and out

came the hairpins, for the good of the game. I have always had to "make

believe" all alone, so it was extra fun having such a grand playfellow

as Sir Somerled--whether he liked it or not. And I determined that I

would _make_ him like it! I wanted him to play properly, and not be

stiff and disagreeable and grown up. He was ready before I was, and

waiting; for it took a little while stuffing all my hair safely into the

hood, and practising how to let it fall at the right moment. I hadn't

quite realized that my playmate was really handsome, in his dark, proud

way, till I saw him in a wavy brown wig with a ribbon-tied queue, a

broad-brimmed hat that sat dashingly on one side, shadowing his face; a

blue overcoat with a cape, and high boots drawn up to his knees. He

looked so splendid, and so young that suddenly my heart beat as if I

were really and truly in love.

"If you should look at yourself in the glass," I said, feeling shy, yet,

wishing him to know that he was nice, "you'd never say again that you've

outgrown romance. No one would suspect you of being anything so dull as

a millionaire. You ought to paint your own portrait in that costume."

"Thanks," said he, "I'd rather do you in yours." But I think he was

pleased.

The photographer and the postilion both came forward to help, but Sir

Somerled wouldn't let his bride be touched by them. He handed me into

the chaise himself, and sat down by my side. Off trotted our horses to a

little distance, and turned round again. The show was ready to begin.

Meanwhile, the others had been busy. They'd placed an anvil, real or

imitation, on the green in front of the house, for the pictures were all

to be taken out of doors. The blacksmith had begun to hammer away at a

horse-shoe, and that was our signal to dash up to the door. He stopped

hammering, pushed back his hat, and greeted us in pantomime. Sir

Somerled, playing his part well since it must be played, swung me out of

the chaise with an arm round my waist. Down fell my hood and my hair,

blowing round his face and hiding mine. He kissed my hand as the

blacksmith ran off into the house to get his book; and by this time I

was almost as wildly excited as if we had eloped. The camera was

grinding out photographs of everything that happened, no doubt, but just

then I forgot all about it, or that any one was looking at us. We

clasped hands over the anvil, Sir Somerled and I. As the blacksmith made

the motions of marrying us in haste, I looked across at my playfellow,

and at the same instant my playfellow looked across at me. I wanted him

to smile, and he would not! "Please _pretend_ you're delighted to marry

me," I mumbled. "Can't you see by my face how glad I am to get _you_?"

"So should I be to get you, if I were the fairy prince," said he, in so

kind a voice it was a pity the biograph couldn't snap it. I squeezed his

hand to thank him for playing up to me, and he squeezed mine to show

that he understood. I felt suddenly that we were the best and truest of

friends. Even meeting my mother can't make up for losing him out of my

life, though he has been in it such a short time, and strayed in only by

accident.

Whole we stood hand in hand, along came the red coach. Out leaped the

father, as the postilion drew his horses up, and the bride sought refuge

in the bridegroom's arms. It did seem real, and exciting!

"Too late! We're married," said I. But even that was not the end of the

play. The father had to threaten the bridegroom with his pistol, and the

bride had to throw herself between the two men. I can see now what fun

actresses have. I was quite sorry when it was all over and the biograph

men were packing up to go.

"We don't know how to thank you enough, miss," said the one who appeared

to be the leader, "for persuading the gentleman. If you'll give us your

address we'll send you reduced copies of the series of pictures."

An address! I didn't know what to answer, for at present I possess no

such thing, though I thought it would sound queer to say so. I looked

for Sir Somerled, but he had walked away down the road to our motor,

which was hiding from the camera. His back was turned to me, but I could

see that his suit-case had been taken down from its place, and he was

putting something in it.

"I don't know whether I ought to mention this, miss," said the biograph

man, "but you might be interested to know that the gentleman has bought

the costume you wore in the wedding-scene, and paid a good price for it.

That's what he's packing away now, I presume."

"Oh! And did he buy his own costume, too?" I asked.

"No, miss, only yours. I thought you might like to know."