Uncle Lot glared fiercely upon the visitors, started to speak, struggled for a moment between the claims of indignation and of hospitality, and finally stalked off majestically to the stables, whence he did not return until summoned by a loud blast of the gourd-horn. Link and the four remaining children had already arrived, and the supper, a most elaborate one,--fried chicken, fried eggs, string beans, potatoes, cucumbers, biscuits, corn-bread, three kinds of pie, and six varieties of preserves,--covered every inch of the table save where the plates were set. Though there was plenty of room, Aunt Ailsie and Ruthena refused to sit down, or to permit any of the "young-uns" to do so, the two men and the guests being "waited upon" first, while the eight children stood about, in absolute stillness, with eyes glued to the faces of the strange women. Even the "least one," not yet a year old, was still. During the meal, Uncle Lot maintained a stony silence; but Link was pleasant, and there was plenty of talk among the women-folk. Aunt Ailsie snatched a bite at the second table, and then, their help in dishwashing being refused by Ruthena, the visitors accompanied Aunt Ailsie to the bars, to see the cows milked. Dusk was falling, frogs were singing, mist rolled along the narrow strip of bottom. Returning, all gathered on the porch, while the soft darkness came on, and a bright crescent moon hung over the mountain in front, lighting up its mist-filled hollows. Amy was reminded of a famous scene in Scotland, and spoke of it. "Scotland?" repeated Aunt Ailsie; "I've heared my maw's granny say hit were the land she come from. She said hit was far away, yan side the old salt sea, and she was four weeks sailing acrost." "And now there are steamships that cross in eight days--mine did." "Tell about when you crossed, and what you seed, and all about them far and absent countries," urged Aunt Ailsie; and the eight "young-uns," who sat around in the same breathless silence, could almost be heard pricking up their ears. Amy told of her trip, while all save Uncle Lot hung upon her words. Once he asked, dryly, "And who looked atter you on the way?" "One of my college chums went with me; we looked after each other." He grunted unbelief. "Hit hain't in reason that any woman in her right mind would start off on sech a v'yage without a man," he said. Amy proceeded with her narrative. When London was mentioned, Aunt Ailsie said: "I have heared of London-town in song-ballats all my days. Do you mind, paw, in 'Jackaro,' the gal's paw being a rich marchant in London-town? And there's a sight more where hit comes in." "Some things are best forgotten, Ailsie," admonished Uncle Lot. "These old ballads you used to sing were made in England and Scotland, hundreds of years ago, and brought across the sea by your ancestors," said Amy. "I wish that Uncle Lot could feel willing for you to sing some of them for us."