"It was a curious kind of dream. The water scalded my neck, and left a scar which was visible for weeks--wasn't it?" She turned to Mr. Talfourd, as if for corroboration. "It was. When I saw it I was disposed to go straight off to Scotland, and give the old harridan a taste of my quality." "It's as queer a story as any I've heard. Seeing that Nannie was as if she had been glued to her bed, how could she walk about the house as you say, and pour buckets of boiling water on to you through a window?" "I only know that she did." "Did you see her?" She considered a moment. "No, I didn't. She took care not to show herself." "She took care not to show herself?" "She hadn't the courage to let me see her face, but she let me hear her voice, and plenty of it. It was not necessary for me to see her when I heard her. I've been acquainted with Nannie Foreshaw's voice for too many years to be likely to mistake it for any one else's." "You're sure? I doubt----" The doctor seemed to be considering in his turn. "I can't put the pieces of the puzzle together so that they just fit, but I've a notion that I'm on the way. Margaret Wallace, I've a suspicion that I've been a greater fool even than I thought. After the chances I've had to get wisdom, to get understanding, that's not a nice feeling to have. Between us--you've had a hand!--we've muddled things to a marvel. I'll communicate with Nannie with reference to that little conversation you say you had with her; when I've heard from her I'll talk to you again." He turned to Mr. Talfourd. "And you, sir, do you make drawings?" "No; I write stories." The doctor looked him up and down as if he were a specimen of a species which was new to him. "Stories? Oh! and is that a man's work? I come of a good old Scottish stock. My forebears have always held that a man should do a man's work. Is writing stories that?" "It isn't easy, if that's what you mean." "Not easy? I should have thought you would have found it as easy as lying. I've written them myself; I didn't find it hard. It's just a waste of time. However, I'm not judging you. Is that all you do, write stories?" "Just at present I'm doing something else as well. I'm acting as private secretary to a lady." "Private secretary to a lady? You've your own notions of what's a man's work, Mr. Talfourd." Harry flushed; Margaret laughed. "And you country Scotchmen have your own ideas of what you're entitled to say." "You're Scotch yourself, my lassie, on the best side of you; don't gird at your own birth. I ask your pardon, Mr. Talfourd, if I've said anything I ought not to say; but I've known this lassie all her days. She's been to me as the apple of my eye, and--she tells me that you're to be her husband. Would it be going too far, Mr. Talfourd, if I were to ask you what's the name of the lady to whom you're acting as private secretary?" "Mrs. Lamb--Mrs. Gregory Lamb." "Mrs. Gregory Lamb? That's odd."