Poor Godiva Churchill Churchill, of Churchill Wolde, Biddecumb on Baddecumb! She is quite lame from her long-continued exercise in the saddle, but still canters aimlessly about. She has become the laughing-stock of all the tenants of Churchill Wolde, and it’s all my fault. If she saw Armand she’d fall in love with him, but I can’t think of a way to bring about their meeting. That’s what it is to lack invention. Just imagine me trying to write a novel! Anyhow, I’ve got a good title for the story. THE END XXIX A SCOTCH SKETCH The shadows lengthened on old Ben Nevis. Surely none of my readers imagines that Ben Nevis is the hero of my simple Scotch sketch. If so, he is awa off. Ben Nevis is a mountain, and I have flung it in as a suitable background for the following conversation: “Mither, mither, ye’ll mek nae doot o’ haein’ roast beef fer supper,” said Hillocks Kilspindie, as he sat on the old bench in front of their cottage door. With a troubled look, his mother, old Margaret Kilspindie, replied: “Man, Hillocks, div ye no see me buyin’ the haggis?” “Yes, mither; but I’m sair sick o’ haggis. Syne Scotch literatoor kem in it’s hard put we are to live at all. I say may the plague take Maclaren and Barrie and Crockett. Before they began to write”--and in his excitement Hillocks was using as good English as any other Scotchman in real life--“roast beef and wheat bread and chops and tomato-sauce and other Christian dishes were good enough for us all. Then came the influx of Americans who wanted to see the scenes made immortal by the ‘Bonnie Brier Bush’ (I wish Ian might have scratched his writing-hand upon it) and the ‘Window in Thrums’ (which I wish some one had broken before Barrie saw it), and now it is haggis in the morning, and haggis at noon, and haggis at night, and Scotch dialect that tears my tongue to pieces all the time.” “Hech, my bairnie; but thae are wrang words, an’ fu’ o’ unchristian bitterness.” “Oh, mother! drop your ‘hechs’ and your ‘fu’s.’ There are no Americans about this evening. It’s hard enough to talk the abominable gibberish when we have to, without keeping it up all the time. But, tell me, mother, couldn’t you smuggle in a little roast beef to-night, and let me eat in the cellar?” And a pleading look came into the young man’s eyes that was hard to resist. “My bairn--I mean my boy, I’d like to, but I dare not. Maclaren’s inspectors are due here any minute, and I could ill afford to pay the heavy fine that would be levied if we were found with as English a thing as roast beef in the house. No, lad, we maun stick to parritch and haggis--I mean we must stick to oatmeal and haggis.”