Our mother had an uncle, William Leslie by name, who with his wife tenanted the old farmhouse of Braeside of Darvel. Uncle William, as my brother Ronald and I called him, was a splendid specimen of the Scottish tenant farmer of a past day. His sterling uprightness and more than average intelligence commanded the respect of all who knew him, while his genial nature and his great fund of old stories caused him to be beloved by us boys. Nothing delighted us more than a visit to Braeside, and when my mother told us of the proposed trip we were in great glee. On a lovely harvest morning father saw us three--mother, Ronald and me! safely bestowed on the “Defiance” coach, and off we went to the sound of the guard’s horn. At noon we reached the Darvel toll house, where Uncle William sat in his shanrydan phaeton waiting to convey us the last two miles of our journey. I need not descant on the heartiness of our welcome, or of all that was done to make us happy. I have lived that week over again many times since then. The farmhouse at the Braeside had at one time been a dower-house of the Forbeses of Darvel, but for several generations it had been occupied by our forebears. It formed two sides of a quadrangle, the other two sides of which were stables and farm buildings. The dwelling house was full of all sorts of odd little apartments, and had just that mysterious something about it which awoke in an impressionable boy a desire for the romantic and legendary. One evening during our visit the wind was whistling shrilly in the old wide chimneys, and we had all gathered around a blazing peat fire in the room which Uncle William used as his study and business room. On either side of the broad open fireplace stood two large easy chairs upholstered in quaintly-embossed leather. They were so different from all the other furniture that my boyish curiosity was aroused, and I asked the old man whence they had come. My mother, who sat in one of them, smiled at my eagerness. “If you would like a story to while away the evening, I’ll tell you how these chairs came to the Braeside,” said Uncle William, and of course we were at once all attention. Generally he spoke in good colloquial English, with a strong north-country accent, but when he waxed enthusiastic over anything he would fall into the broad Doric Scotch.