The Miss Watsons outstayed the other guests, and Pamela, remembering Jean's advice, produced a few stray photographs of relations which were regarded with much interest and some awe. The photograph of her brother, Lord Bidborough, they could hardly lay down. Finally, Pamela presented them with flowers and a basket of apples newly arrived from Bidborough Manor, and they returned to Balmoral walking on air. "Such _pleasant_ company and _such_ a tea," said Miss Watson. "She had out all her best things." "And Mrs. Jowett and Miss Dawson were asked to meet _us_," exulted Miss Teenie. "And very affable they were," added her sister. But when the sisters had removed their best clothes and were seated in the dining-room with the cloth laid for supper, Miss Teenie said, "All the same, it's fine to be back in our own house and not to have to heed about manners." She pulled a low chair close to the fire as she spoke and spread her skirt back over her knee and, thoroughly comfortable and at peace with the world, beamed on her sister, who replied: "What do you say to having some toasted cheese to our supper?" CHAPTER XII "I hear the whaups on windy days Cry up among the peat Whaur, on the road that spiels the braes, I've heard ma ain sheep's feet. An' the bonnie lambs wi' their canny ways And the silly yowes that bleat." _Songs of Angus_. Mhor, having but lately acquired the art of writing, was fond of exercising his still very shaky pen where and when he could. One morning, by reason of neglecting his teeth, and a few other toilet details, he was able to be downstairs ten minutes before breakfast, and spent the time in the kitchen, plaguing Mrs. M'Cosh to let him write an inscription in her Bible. "What wud ye write?" she asked suspiciously. "I would write," said Mhor--"I would write, 'From Gervase Taunton to Mrs. M'Cosh.'" "That wud be a lee," said Mrs. M'Cosh, "for I got it frae ma sister Annie, her that's in Australia. Here see, there's a post-caird for ye. It's a rale nice yin.--Sauchiehall Street, Glasgow. There's Annackers' shope as plain's plain." Mhor looked discontentedly at the offering. "I wish," he said slowly--"I wish I had a post-card of a hippopotamus being sick." "Ugh, you want unnaitural post-cairds. Think on something wise-like, like a guid laddie." Mhor considered. "If you give me a sheet of paper and an envelope I might write to the Lion at the Zoo." For the sake of peace Mrs. M'Cosh produced the materials, and Mhor sat down at the table, his elbows spread out, his tongue protruding. He had only managed "Dear Lion," when Jean called him to go upstairs and wash his teeth and get a clean handkerchief. The sun was shining into the dining-room, lighting up the blue china on the dresser, and catching the yellow lights in Jean's hair. "What a silly morning for November," growled Jock. "What's the sun going on shining like that for? You'd think it thought it was summer."