with an anxious quaver in her voice, "Did mother beat Elsie, Duncan?"

"I think so," Duncan replied indignantly.

"Eh, well, Duncan," she said, consolingly, "mother's often threatened and never done it before, and Elsie's a wilful child, with a spirit and temper that must needs be broken. But what was the matter now?"

"It was about fetching the milk," Duncan replied. "Elsie don't like it, and she wouldn't be quick."

"Eh, well; but it's the place of the young to fetch and carry," said the old woman, in a much more cheerful tone than she had used before. "But Duncan, my laddie, have you picked up a wee bit of paper with writing on it, what grandmother has dropped?"

"No, granny, I haven't never picked up a piece," Duncan replied.

"Nor seen it lying about neither, dearie? Come now, think if you picked it up and threw it in the fire. I won't be angry if you tell the truth."

"I never saw it at all," said Duncan again.

"Ah, well! I thought perhaps that it was about that mother was angry with Elsie, but it wasn't, after all; you're sure of that, Duncan?"

"Oh no; it was about the milk," Duncan returned, readily.

"And Elsie's asleep now. Well, well, youth must be chastised sometimes," crooned the old woman, softly. "You needn't talk about the paper I've lost, Duncan. It's safe enough in the fire, no doubt; but if you see a scrap of paper lying anywhere, bring it to grandmother, and she'll give you a penny for sharp eyes."

Then the old dame went cautiously downstairs, feeling the way with her thick stick, and Duncan once more went off to bed.

He woke very early the next morning, wondering whether Elsie would keep her vaunted threat of refusing to fetch the milk, and if so, what would happen: for if Elsie were obstinate, their mother was firm as a rock in doing a duty, and Duncan well knew she would not be overborne by any one. So it was with a vague uneasiness that he put on his clothes and went downstairs. To his surprise and relief, Elsie was already in the kitchen and was busily, though with a sulky-enough expression, rinsing out the can. Elsie's valour, like that of many an older person, was greater in words than action, and there is no doubt that the previous night's punishment had had its effect.

But that Duncan should think so was the last thing that Elsie would wish. Directly they were outside the door, she said in a careless tone, "It's nice and cool this morning across the moor: much better out here than in that little loft."

"And won't you come this afternoon?" asked simple, straightforward Duncan.

"I don't know," Elsie answered sharply. "It depends upon whether I feel inclined. Duncan, what was that granny was asking about a piece of paper?"

"She only asked me if I'd picked a piece up with writing on it, and said she'd give me a penny if I found it."

"I dare say she would," laughed Elsie; "but you won't ever get the penny, Duncan, so don't expect it. She didn't ask if I'd picked it up?"

"No, she didn't; but have you found it, Elsie? because I'll take it to her, and give you the penny," Duncan remarked.

"A penny indeed!" laughed Elsie contemptuously. "I wonder whether you really could keep a secret, Duncan?"

Duncan was rather hurt at the implied doubt. "I never told tales of you, Elsie, never," he said, earnestly.

"Look here," Elsie exclaimed, "I was weeding my bit of garden just under the kitchen window yesterday, and granny was sitting at the window, yet never saw me. She was reading some old letters, peering at them ever so hard through her spectacles, and talking to herself all the time. I expect she'd taken them out of mother's drawer, for she kept on looking round to see if any one was coming, and the best of it was I was watching all the time, and she never knew it. I saw her put one piece of paper down on the window-sill; she was saying very funny things to herself. 'Meg shouldn't have done it; she wouldn't take my advice. Ah! she'll rue it some day, I well believe,' and all on like that. Of course Meg means mother, and I was just wondering what it was she was talking about, when the wind blew quite a puff, and blew the piece of paper right on to my garden. I was just going to peep at it, and see what it was mother shouldn't have done. Then granny gets up, and goes peering all round to see where the paper's gone. She pulled all the cushions out of the chair, and turned up the matting, and looked over her letters ever so many times, and never noticed that it had blown out of the window. Presently I put my head through the window, and cried out, 'What's the matter, granny?' 'It's only I've dropped a little bit of paper, my dear,' she says to me. 'Just come and see if your young eyes can find it.' I went in and looked all round. Of course I didn't find it, and I was almost dying of laughing all the time."

"And have you got it now, Elsie?" Duncan asked, with wide eyes.

"Yes, I have," Elsie replied shortly; "and it's much more interesting than I thought it would be. It's about you and me."

"You and me?" echoed Duncan, who was of a matter-of-fact mind, and was always content with things just as he found them.

"Yes, stupid," said Elsie, crossly; "I always said mother favoured Robbie, and so she does. Why he has new things much oftener than you, and you're older too. Do you and me have boots and stockings for week-a-days? then why should Robbie? Don't you wonder why mother pets him so?"

"No," Duncan answered truthfully. "He's ever so much more babyish than me."

"Well, I say it's a shame," continued Elsie. "Look at this old sun-bonnet. Do you think I ought to wear such a thing as that? Didn't I always say I'd love a long feather like the ladies at the manse? and why shouldn't I have one, and a silk pelisse, and gloves upon my hands, and sweet little shoes for walking in?"

"Why, you'd be just a lady," Duncan said.

Elsie laughed a pleased soft laugh. "A lady, just a bonny lady," she said over to herself; "and wouldn't you love to be a little laird, Duncan?"

"I don't know what it's like, Elsie," Duncan said thoughtfully.

"It isn't like fetching milk and sleeping in a loft," Elsie said sharply. "It isn't like porridge for breakfast and porridge for supper. It would be like——everything that's nice," she said, after a minute or two's pause, for she really did not know anything about it, and was suddenly pulled up in her description by that fact.

CHAPTER III.—THE LETTER.

T
he boy walked along, silently thinking over what Elsie had been saying, in a muddly, confused sort of way. Robbie, and granny's letter, and Elsie's beating, lairds and ladies, and something secret and mysterious that Elsie knew, were mingled hazily in his mind, in such chaotic fashion that he had nothing to say, not knowing how to put his ideas into the form of a question.

It was not until they were on their road home again that he suddenly asked, "Whose letter is it, Elsie?"

"What do you mean?" Elsie returned, with more than usual quickness. "I say it's mine and yours. Mother'd say 'twas hers, most likely; perhaps granny might say 'twas hers; I say it's ours as much as ever it's theirs, and the person what wrote it is our father; so there, Duncan."

"Mine too!" Duncan echoed, in greater bewilderment than before. "Then, if it's mine too, Elsie—

"Well, what?"

"I ought to read it, an' see what's in it."

Elsie laughed. "Of course you ought," she replied encouragingly. "That's just what I said to myself when I caught sight of it; and when I'd read it, an' saw that it was all about you and me, an' told a secret too, what granny an' mother have always kept away from us, d'you think I was goin' to give it up? no, not if I know it. An' to think they fancy it's