When his housekeeper returned from church, Lord Lossie sent for her. “Sit down, Mrs Courthope,” he said; “I want to ask you about a story I have a vague recollection of hearing when I spent a summer at this house some twenty years ago. It had to do with a room in the house that was never opened.” “There is such a story, my lord,” answered the housekeeper. “The late marquis, I remember well, used to laugh at it, and threaten now and then to dare the prophecy; but old Eppie persuaded him not --or at least fancied she did.” “Who is old Eppie?” “She’s gone now, my lord. She was over a hundred then. She was born and brought up in the house, lived all her days in it, and died in it; so she knew more about the place than any one else.” “Is ever likely to know,” said the marquis, superadding a close to her sentence. “And why wouldn’t she have the room opened?” he asked. “Because of the ancient prophecy, my lord.” “I can’t recall a single point of the story.” “I wish old Eppie were alive to tell it,” said Mrs Courthope. “Don’t _you_ know it then?” “Yes, pretty well; but my English tongue can’t tell it properly. It doesn’t sound right out of my mouth. I’ve heard it a good many times too, for I had often to take a visitor to her room to hear it, and the old woman liked nothing better than telling it. But I couldn’t help remarking that it had grown a good bit even in my time. The story was like a tree: it got bigger every year.” “That’s the way with a good many stories,” said the marquis. “But tell me the prophecy at least.” “That is the only part I can give just as she gave it. It’s in rhyme. I hardly understand it, but I’m sure of the words.” “Let us have them then, if you please.” Mrs Courthope reflected for a moment, and then repeated the following lines: “The lord quha wad sup on 3 thowmes o’ cauld airn, The ayr quha wad kythe a bastard and carena, The mayd quha wad tyne her man and her bairn, Lift the sneck, and enter, and fearna.” “That’s it, my lord,” she said, in conclusion. “And there’s one thing to be observed,” she added, “--that that door is the only one in all the passage that has a sneck, as they call it.” “What is a sneck?” asked his lordship, who was not much of a scholar in his country’s tongue. “What we call a latch in England, my lord. I took pains to learn the Scotch correctly, and I’ve repeated it to your lordship, word for word.” “I don’t doubt it,” returned Lord Lossie, “but for the sense, I can make nothing of it.--And you think my brother believed the story?” “He always laughed at it, my lord, but pretended at least to give in to old Eppie’s entreaties.” “You mean that he was more near believing it than he liked to confess?” “That’s not what I mean, my lord.” “Why do you say _pretended_ then?” “Because when the news of his death came, some people about the place would have it that he must have opened the door some time or other.” “How did they make that out?”