There were no deputations to request the honour of Miss Macrae's distinguished services on this occasion; that is not the way the self-respecting villager comports himself in Fifeshire. The chairman of the local committee, a respectable gardener, called upon Miss Macrae at Pettybaw House, and said, “I'm sent to tell ye ye're to have the pleasure an' the honour of lichtin' the bonfire the nicht! Ay, it's a grand chance ye're havin', miss, ye'll remember it as long as ye live, I'm thinkin'!” When I complimented this rugged soul on his decoration of the triumphal arch under which the school-children were to pass, I said, “I think if her Majesty could see it, she would be pleased with our village to-day, James.” “Ay, ye're richt, miss,” he replied complacently. “She'd see that Inchcawdy canna compeer wi' us; we've patronised her weel in Pettybaw!” Truly, as Stevenson says, 'he who goes fishing among the Scots peasantry with condescension for a bait will have an empty basket by evening.' At eleven o'clock a boy arrived at Bide-a-Wee with an interesting-looking package, which I promptly opened. That dear foolish lover of mine (whose foolishness is one of the most adorable things about him) makes me only two visits a day, and is therefore constrained to send me some reminder of himself in the intervening hours, or minutes--a book, a flower, or a note. Uncovering the pretty box, I found a long, slender--something--of sparkling silver. “What is it?” I exclaimed, holding it up. “It is too long and not wide enough for a paper-knife, although it would be famous for cutting magazines. Is it a baton? Where did Willie find it, and what can it be? There is something engraved on one side, something that looks like birds on a twig,--yes, three little birds; and see the lovely cairngorm set in the end! Oh, it has words cut in it: 'To Jean: From Hynde Horn'--Goodness me! I've opened Miss Dalziel's package!” Francesca made a sudden swooping motion, and caught box, cover, and contents in her arms. “It is mine! I know it is mine!” she cried. “You really ought not to claim everything that is sent to the house, Penelope--as if nobody had any friends or presents but you!” and she rushed upstairs like a whirlwind. I examined the outside wrapper, lying on the floor, and found, to my chagrin, that it did bear Miss Monroe's name, somewhat blotted by the rain; but if the box were addressed to her, why was the silver thing inscribed to Miss Dalziel? Well, Francesca would explain the mystery within the hour, unless she had become a changed being.