be, Sam Blake, says he'll come to Scotland for the
wadd'n, but he'll no' stop. He's that fond o' the sea that he canna
leave 't. It's my opeenion that he'll no' rest till he gits a pirit's
knife in his breed-baskit. Mair's the peety, for he's a fine man. But
the best news I've got to tell 'e, mither, is, that Colonel Brentwood
an' his wife an' daughter an' her guidman--a sensible sort o' chiel,
though he _is_ English--are a' comin' doon to spend the autumn on the
Braes o' Yarrow.

"Noo, I'll stop. Susy's waitin' for me, an' sends her love.--Yer
affectionate son, DAVID LAIDLAW."

We must take the liberty now, good reader, of directing your attention
to another time and place.

And, first, as regards time. One day, three weeks after the events
which have just been narrated, Mrs Brentwood took Susan Blake through a
stained glass door out upon a leaded roof and bade her look about her.
The roof was not high up, however. It only covered the kitchen, which
was a projection at the back of the Colonel's mansion.

Susan, somewhat surprised, looked inquiringly in the lady's face.

"A fine view, is it not?" asked Mrs Brentwood.

"Very fine indeed," said Susy, and she was strictly correct, for the
back of the house commanded an extensive view of one of the most
beautiful parts of Hampstead Heath.

"Does it not remind you, Susan, a little, a very little, of the views
from the garret-garden?" asked the lady, with a curious expression in
her handsome eyes.

"Well, hardly!" replied Susan, scarce able to repress a smile. "You
see, there is no river or shipping, and one misses the chimney-pots!"

"Chimney-pots!" exclaimed Mrs Brentwood, "why, what do you call these?"
pointing to a row of one-storey stables not far off, the roofs of which
were variously ornamented with red pots and iron zigzag pipes. "As to
the river, don't you see the glimmer of that sheet of water through the
trees in the distance, a pond or canal it is, I'm not sure which, but
I'm quite sure that the flag-staff of our eccentric naval neighbour is
sufficiently suggestive of shipping, is it not?"

"Well, madam, if one tries to make believe _very_ much--"

"Ah, Susan, I see you have not a powerful imagination! Perhaps it is as
well! Now, I have brought you here to help me with a plot which is to
be a great secret. You know it is arranged that dear old nurse is to
spend the summer on the Braes of Yarrow with the Laidlaws, and the
winter in London w