John Anderson, the proprietor of the “Bull’s Head,” stood gazing wrathfully upon the scene of disorder which met his eyes as he opened the door of the sitting-room of his distinguished lodger’s apartments. It was early evening, and still that lodger remained in bed, although he had been called at different intervals throughout the day by the irate, though kind-hearted, landlord himself. “Dear—dear—dear,” he muttered to himself, as he arranged the furniture, “I’ll just give Robbie a bit o’ my mind.” He went to the door of the sleeping apartment and looked in. “Sleepin’ like a bairn,” he said softly, “an’—an’ wi’ his boots on. Ma certie!” He raised his hands in horror. “Weel, I’m glad ye’re nae under the bed. Ah, weel, young blood must hae its course. I mind I was young mysel’, an’ if I do say it I could drink mair whusky than any mon in the toon. Oh, those were happy days,” and he sang softly to himself, as he continued his work about the room: “We are na fou’ We’re nat that fou’, But just a droppie in our ee. The cock may craw, The day may daw’, An’ ay we’ll taste the barley bree.” A knock on the door interrupted his song. “Weel, who is it?” he called impatiently. “Open the door,” replied a female voice eagerly. “A lassie,” exclaimed John in amazement. “Oh, Robbie, ye devil.” He swung open the door and stood back to allow the gorgeously dressed lady to enter the room. Her dress of rich purple brocaded silk, cut in the extreme of fashion, rustled stiffly over the polished floor. Her head with its powdered wig was held haughtily erect as she surveyed the room with sparkling black eyes that nervously took in her surroundings, through the tiny holes in the black mask which concealed her face. “I—I thought—isn’t Mr. Burns at home?” she stammered uneasily. “Weel, what may ye be wantin’ wi’ Mr. Burns?” asked John cautiously. He had been bothered to death with answering the questions of the silly women who flocked to the parlors of the inn in hopes of seeing their idol. The lady turned on him sharply. “None of your business, my good man,” she retorted haughtily. “How dare you question me, sirrah?” John was quite taken aback by the imperious tones, but he still had his suspicions. “Weel, I thought perhaps ye were one o’ the artless bonnie wenches who were here last night wi’ the lads makin’ merry till the wee sma’ hours. If ye are——” he paused significantly. She flashed him an angry look. “Make your mind easy on that score, my good fellow,” she retorted icily. “I have called to interview Mr. Burns on an important matter. Is he at home?” “Aye; he is in there asleep,” replied John, pointing to a door beside the large book cabinet, which nearly occupied one side of the room. “Asleep!” she repeated incredulously. “Lud, he retires uncommon early for a gallant,” and there was a note of disappointment in her deep contralto voice. “Early is it?” said John, with a knowing smile. “Faith, he hasna been up this day.”