I think I am guessing fairly rightly when I say that Liz feels guilty of neglecting her own mother, and like Meg Caddam she projects the reproach on to someone else. * * * * * * Last Friday night I gave a lecture to the literary Society in Tarby, our nearest town. I chose the subject of forgetting, and I told the audience of Freud and his great work in connection with the unconscious. To-day's _Tarby Herald_ in reporting the lecture prints phonetically the spelling "Froid," but the _Tarby Observer_ goes one better when it says: "Mr. Neill is an exponent of the new science of Cycloanalysis." Which reminds me of a painful episode that took place when I was eighteen. I was much enamoured of a young university student, and I always strove to gain her favour by being interested in the things she liked. One day she informed me that she intended to take the Psychology class at St. Andrews the following session. I had never heard the word before, and I made a bold guess that it had something to do with cycles. In consequence we talked at cross purposes for a while. "I'd love a subject like that," I said warmly. "Most of it will be experimental psychology," she said. My enthusiasm increased. I thought of the many experiments I had tried with my old cushion-tyred cycle. "Excellent!" I cried. "A sort of training in inventing. Cranks, eh?" At that time my one ambition in life was to invent a folding crank that would give double power on hills. The lady looked at me sharply. "Why cranks?" she demanded. "I don't see it. Psychology has nothing to do with crystal-gazing you know." I was gravelled. "But what's the idea?" I asked. "Improvement of design?" This made her think hard. "H'm, yes, I think I know what you mean," she said slowly. "But remember that before you can improve the psyche you must know the psyche." I hastened to agree. "Certainly, but all the same there is much room for improvement. You don't want to come off at every hill, do you?" This seemed to make her more thoughtful still. "No," she said, "but don't you think that the mind makes the hill?" This staggered me. "Eh?" I gasped. "Mean to say that I broke my chain on Logie Brae yesterday because----" "I'm afraid it is too difficult for me," she said apologetically. "I get lost in metaphors." Then I asked her something about ball bearings, and she threw me a grateful smile . . . for changing the subject--as she thought. The most amusing joke is the joke about the innocent or ignorant. Everyone is tickled at the Hamlet joke I referred to in my _Log_. The school inspector was dining with the local squire. "Funny thing happened in the village school to-day," he said. "I was a little bit ratty, and I fired a question at a sleepy-looking boy at the bottom of the class. "Here, boy, who wrote _Hamlet_?" The little chap got very flustered. "P--please, sir, it wasna me!" The squire laughed boisterously.