“No, no; no title! Leddy is the feminine of Laird, in old Scots--not Lady, mind, which has another meaning. This is a ring that belonged to Robert Hay in the end of the fifteenth century. We bear the yoke still in our arms, you see. Robert Hay, of the Erroll family, married the heiress of Pitcomlie--who was Marjory, like our Marjory downstairs. It’s a romance in its way. I have put together some of the facts in the shape of a kind of family history; but whether it will ever see the light of day--” “Then you are an author, as well as an antiquary?” said Fanshawe; “and an art collector; and all sorts of learned things besides. What an impudent wretch I was to speak of dulness here!” Mr. Charles blushed, and waved his hand in gentle deprecation. “No more of an author than I am of an antiquary,” he said; “a bit smattering here and there, that’s all the knowledge I possess. As for my bits of family notes, I doubt if they would interest any but the family and connections. We have never had any notabilities among us; good, honest, ordinary folk; some soldiers that have done well in their day, but never very remarkable; and some clever women--that’s been our speciality. You may see it in Marjory at the present moment. Clever women--I don’t mean authoresses, or that kind of cattle, but real capable mothers of families, that could guide their house and rule their children. We’ve been great for that. Here are some miniatures that, perhaps, will interest you; some very good, some bad enough, but all the same character, the same character running through them. There is one you would say was done for May, and it’s her great-aunt I don’t know how many times removed.” Thus the old man chattered, leading the stranger from one corner to another of his domain. Mr. Charles’s rooms were in the habitable corner of the old house of Pitcomlie, which was connected with the new house by a long corridor, a windy passage, with the garden on one side and the cliff on the other. One wing of the old building had been preserved in sufficient repair, and Mr. Charles’s study occupied the round of the old tourelle, as well as part of the ancient front of the house. It was a large, cheerful room, with many windows, which he had fitted up according to his taste, and his taste was good. His writing-table stood in the round of the little tower commanding views up and down the Firth. All the wonderful panorama on which Fanshawe had gazed with so much interest from the cliffs, unfolded itself round the old windows which were set in the half-circle of the tower. Between these windows Mr. Charles had placed frames of crimson velvet, set with miniatures, with rare old prints, and with small but exquisite scraps of sketches. Only a trained eye, indeed, could have divined the amount of modest wealth contained upon these; delightful faces, lovely little scraps of scenery, gems which nothing could replace, though to the ignorant they seemed simple enough.