"I have witnessed more snappy entertainments," remarked Miss Buncle, the American girl, through her pretty nose. "Still, we smiled some. Mr Standish here got quite delirious when the minister prayed for 'the adjacent country of England, which, as Thou knowest, O Lord, lies some twa hundred miles to the sooth of us,'--I'm sorry I can't talk Scotch, Mr Fordyce,--as if he was afraid that Providence might mail the blessing to the wrong address and Iceland would get it." Kitty broke in upon Miss Buncle's reminiscences. "Who do you think we saw in church?" she said. "I nearly forgot to tell you. Your uncle, Robin--Sir James Fordyce!" Robin nodded his head in a confirmatory way. "He is often up here at this time of year," he said. "He has friends here, perhaps?" said I. "Oh yes; he has friends." I could tell from Robin's voice that he was nursing some immense joke, but he betrayed no inclination to share it with us. Kitty went on. "He was sitting in a pew with some farmery-looking people. There was a patriarchal old man, very stately and imposing, rather like--like----" "Moses?" I suggested. "No. I don't _think_ Moses was like that." I had got as far as 'Aar'--when Lady Rubislaw said-- "Elijah?" "That's it," replied Kitty. "_Just_ like Elijah." (All things considered, I cannot imagine why Moses would not have done as well.) "Then beside him was a perfectly dear old lady. Not so very old either; say sixty. Of course they may not have belonged to Sir James at all: he may just have been put in their pew. Still, they kept handing him Bibles, and looking up places for him at singing time." "That means nothing," said I. "It's the merest courtesy here." "True," said our hostess. "I was having a most lovely little doze during the Second Lesson, or whatever they call it, when a most officious young woman three or four pews away took up an enormous Bible, found the place, squeaked down the aisle, and thrust it under my nose. I had to hold it up for fifty-seven verses," she concluded pathetically. "Did you go and speak to Sir James after the service?" I inquired. "No. That was _this_ child's fault," said Kitty, indicating Miss Buncle. "How?" "Well, there was a rather gorgeous-looking chieftain sort of person sitting in a front pew, and I saw Maimie twisting her head all during the service to look at him." "Yes," admitted the culprit frankly. "Put me in the neighbourhood of a kilt, and I'm a common rubberneck straight away, Mr Inglethwaite. I'm just mad to know all those cunning tartans by heart." "The moment the service was over," continued my wife severely, "I saw her edging through the crowd in the churchyard towards the chieftain. For a moment I thought she was going to ask him his name." "I _wasn't_!" declared Miss Buncle indignantly.