But all this time, in supreme contempt Katie held the rural homage which began to be paid to her. Simple and playful as a child in Kellie, Katie at home, when a young farmer, or sailor, or prosperous country tradesman, or all of them together, as happened not unfrequently, hung shyly about the fire in the Anstruther Milton, to which the family had now removed, watching for opportunities to recommend themselves, was as stately and dignified as any Lady Erskine of them all. For Katie had made up her mind. Still, “a grand gentleman,” handsome, courtly, and accomplished, with titles and honours, wealth and birth, wandered about, a gleaming splendid shadow, through the castles she built every day. To gain _some_ rich and noble wooer, of whatever kind proved attainable, was by no means Katie’s ambition. It was a superb imagination, which walked by her side in her dreams, naturally clothed with the grandeur which was his due; for Katie’s mind was not very greatly developed yet—her graver powers—and the purple of nobility and rank draped her grand figure with natural simplicity—a guileless ideal. “Is Lady Betty’s house a grand place, Lady Anne?” asked Katie, as she placed the embroidery in the chest. “It’s in the High Street,” said Lady Anne, with some pride; “not far from the Parliament House, Katie; but it’s not like Kellie, you know; and you that have never been in a town, may think it close, and not like a noble house to be in a street; but the High Street and the Canongate are grand streets; and the house is very fine too—only Betty is alone.” “Is Lord Colville no at home, Lady Anne?” asked Katie. “Lord Colville’s at the sea—he’s always at the sea—and it’s dreary for Betty to be left alone; but when she sees us, Katie, she’ll think she’s at Kellie again.” “And would she be glad to think that, I wonder?” said Katie, half under her breath. But Lady Anne did not answer, for the good Lady Anne was making no speculations at the moment about happiness in the abstract, and so did not properly apprehend the question of her little friend. The sound of a loud step hastening up stairs startled them. Onward it came thumping through the gallery, and a breathless voice bore it company, singing after a very strange fashion. Voice and step were both undoubtedly Bauby Rodger’s, and the gallery creaked under the one, and the song came forth in gasps from the other, making itself articulate in a stormy gust as she approached the door. “Oh handsome Charlie Stuart! Oh charming Charlie Stuart! There’s no a lad in a’ the land That’s half sae sweet as thou art!” “Bauby!” exclaimed Lady Anne with dignity, as her giant handmaiden threw open the door—“Bauby, you have forgotten yourself. Is that a way to enter a room where I am?”