s he had a fancy for roaming at night. He
reached home in safety, found the door as he had left it, and ascended
to his bed, triumphant in his fiddle.

In the morning bloody prints were discovered on the stair, and traced to
the door of his room. Miss Lammie entered in some alarm, and found him
fast asleep on his bed, still dressed, with a brown-paper parcel in his
arms, and one of his feet evidently enough the source of the frightful
stain. She was too kind to wake him, and inquiry was postponed till
they met at breakfast, to which he descended bare-footed, save for a
handkerchief on the injured foot.

'Robert, my lad,' said Mr. Lammie, kindly, 'hoo cam ye by that bluidy
fut?'

Robert began the story, and, guided by a few questions from his host, at
length told the tale of the violin from beginning to end, omitting only
his adventure in the factory. Many a guffaw from Mr. Lammie greeted its
progress, and Miss Lammie laughed till the tears rolled unheeded down
her cheeks, especially when Shargar, emboldened by the admiration Robert
had awakened, imparted his private share in the comedy, namely, the
entombment of Boston in a fifth-fold state; for the Lammies were none
of the unco guid to be censorious upon such exploits. The whole business
advanced the boys in favour at Bodyfauld; and the entreaties of
Robert that nothing, should reach his grandmother's ears were entirely
unnecessary.

After breakfast Miss Lammie dressed the wounded foot. But what was to
be done for shoes, for Robert's Sunday pair had been left at home? Under
ordinary circumstances it would have been no great hardship to him to
go barefoot for the rest of the autumn, but the cut was rather a serious
one. So his feet were cased in a pair of Mr. Lammie's Sunday boots,
which, from their size, made it so difficult for him to get along, that
he did not go far from the doors, but revelled in the company of his
violin in the corn-yard amongst last year's ricks, in the barn, and in
the hayloft, playing all the tunes he knew, and trying over one or two
more from a very dirty old book of Scotch airs, which his teacher had
lent him.

In the evening, as they sat together after supper, Mr. Lammie said,

'Weel, Robert, hoo's the fiddle?'

'Fine, I thank ye, sir,' answered Robert.

'Lat's hear what ye can do wi' 't.'

Robert fetched the instrument and complied.

'That's no that ill,' remarked the farmer. 'But eh! man, ye suld hae
heard yer gran'father han'