o the pleasant, bark-scented place where, under his solitary
skylight, Mr. William Lyon was so calmly reading his favourite _Memoirs
of the Life of Thomas Boston of Ettrick_.

Besides my clothes, there were two things which interfered with the
happiness of my jaunt. One was the presence of a third and most
uncertain party to the affair--our rough, red house-collie Crazy, and
the other was a doubt as to the way in which we would be received. For,
be it remembered, I had seen Miss Irma Maitland shut the great door at
the top of the Marnhoul steps on the raging crowd of assailants, and I
wondered if we would not also find it slammed in our faces.

I had, however, confidence in my grandmother.

On the way to the padlocked gate at the entrance of the avenue which led
to the Haunted House, my grandmother had abundant room for the exercise
of her gifts. Never was there a woman who came across so many things
that "she could not abide."

Such, for instance, were Widow Tolmie's ideas as to disposal of her
nocturnal household rubbish on the King's highway. Into the Tolmie house
went Mistress Mary Lyon, well aware that words would have no avail. In a
minute she had requisitioned broom, bucket, and "claut," or byre-rake.
In other three minutes all was over. Widow Tolmie had a clean frontage.
The utensils had been washed and hung up, and my grandmother was
delivering a lecture from one of the most frequently-quoted texts which
are not to be found in Holy Writ, while she drew again upon her strong,
energetic old hands the pair of lisle thread "mitts" she had taken off
in order to effect her clean sweep.

After she had duly lectured the Widow Tolmie, she bade her in all amity
"Good-day," and started to reform Crazy, who had been gyrating furiously
across her path, trying apparently to bite his tail out by the roots.
Crazy was, it appeared, a useless, good-for-nothing beast, a disgrace to
a decent Elder's house, and I was ordered to stone him home.

Now I did not particularly wish Crazy to go with us to the Great House.
I thought of the smiling carelessness of the girl's face I had seen
there. Crazy might, and very likely would, misbehave himself. But still,
Crazy was my friend, my companion, my joy. _Stone Crazy!_ It was not to
be thought of. He would certainly consider it some new kind of game and
run barking after the missiles. I therefore shot so far beyond that the
pebbles fell over the hedge, till my grandmother, whose sole m