I travelled away with the top tier of my cake, and ate bits of it in France, Switzerland, Italy, and Germany, during our three months’ honeymoon. We took one of the houses at the top of Harley Street, overlooking Regent’s Park, where squirrels frolic and wood pigeons cry, and there, in York Terrace, where the muffin man rings his bell on Sundays and George IV lamp-posts hold our light, I still live. Apropos of this street, Sir Arthur Grant of Monymusk once told me a curious story. His grandfather owned many houses in the neighbourhood in the beginning of the nineteenth century, and whenever one was empty he put an old caretaker in who had once been a personal servant. On one occasion one of the houses was to let. A lady and gentleman arrived in a carriage and asked to see over it. The caretaker showed them round and they seemed pleased with everything. They asked many questions and lingered some time, and when they left, to the surprise of the caretaker, they handed her a sovereign. As most people gave her nothing, and others a shilling, she was rather taken aback with the sovereign, and explained how large a sum it was. “It is all right,” said the gentleman, “put it in your pocket and may it bring you luck.” Not long after her return to the staircase, which she had been cleaning before their arrival, she heard a child’s voice. It seemed to be crying. She listened for some time, and as she was quite alone in the house, she was unable to understand the cause. Finally, feeling sure it came from a certain room, she went and opened the door, just to satisfy herself it was an hallucination. What was her amazement to find a sturdy little boy of two standing before her. She nearly had a fit, the people had not mentioned a child, nor had she seen anything of it, and she remembered that the lady and gentleman had left no address. Feeling sure such kind people would come back, she took the small boy to the kitchen and gave him some milk. He was too small to tell her who he was or where he came from, though he sat and cried. When her husband came home she told him the strange story. “Oh, they will come and fetch him presently. Don’t you worry,” he said. But day wore on to evening, and evening wore on to night, and no one came. The only thing she could do was to pacify him and put him to bed, and when she undressed him golden sovereigns fell out of a bag tied round his neck. The mystery thickened. Days went on; no one claimed the child. The caretaker went to Sir Arthur’s grandfather and reported the matter, and everything was done to try to trace the owners of the little boy, but nothing was heard of them. The woman’s husband was a nice old man, and instead of wishing to turn the child out, he said: “No, God ordained to give us no children of our own. This little boy has been left with us, and it is our duty to take care of him.” So accordingly the little boy was brought up as their own son.