"Secondly," I continued, "I was sitting alone in my garden last summer--near the end of July--do you remember? You must have wandered in there through the park; you came up to the house and looked at me--" "Was that you?" she asked, in evident surprise. Then she broke into a laugh. "I told everybody I had seen a ghost; there had never been any Cairngorms in the place since the memory of man. We left the next day, and never heard that you had come there; indeed, I did not know the castle belonged to you." "Where were you staying?" I asked. "Where? Why, with my aunt, where I always stay. She is your neighbour, since it _is_ you." "I--beg your pardon--but then--is your aunt Lady Bluebell? I did not quite catch--" "Don't be afraid. She is amazingly deaf. Yes. She is the relict of my beloved uncle, the sixteenth or seventeenth Baron Bluebell--I forget exactly how many of them there have been. And I--do you know who I am?" She laughed, well knowing that I did not. "No," I answered frankly. "I have not the least idea. I asked to be introduced because I recognised you. Perhaps--perhaps you are a Miss Bluebell?" "Considering that you are a neighbour, I will tell you who I am," she answered. "No; I am of the tribe of Bluebells, but my name is Lammas, and I have been given to understand that I was christened Margaret. Being a floral family, they call me Daisy. A dreadful American man once told me that my aunt was a Bluebell and that I was a Harebell--with two l's and an e--because my hair is so thick. I warn you, so that you may avoid making such a bad pun." "Do I look like a man who makes puns?" I asked, being very conscious of my melancholy face and sad looks. Miss Lammas eyed me critically. "No; you have a mournful temperament. I think I can trust you," she answered. "Do you think you could communicate to my aunt the fact that you are a Cairngorm and a neighbour? I am sure she would like to know." I leaned towards the old lady, inflating my lungs for a yell. But Miss Lammas stopped me. "That is not of the slightest use," she remarked. "You can write it on a bit of paper. She is utterly deaf." "I have a pencil," I answered, "but I have no paper. Would my cuff do, do you think?" "Oh yes!" replied Miss Lammas, with alacrity; "men often do that." I wrote on my cuff: "Miss Lammas wishes me to explain that I am your neighbour, Cairngorm." Then I held out my arm before the old lady's nose. She seemed perfectly accustomed to the proceeding, put up her glasses, read the words, smiled, nodded, and addressed me in the unearthly voice peculiar to people who hear nothing. "I knew your grandfather very well," she said. Then she smiled and nodded to me again, and to her niece, and relapsed into silence. "It is all right," remarked Miss Lammas. "Aunt Bluebell knows she is deaf, and does not say much, like the parrot. You see, she knew your grandfather. How odd, that we should be neighbours! Why have we never met before?"