etty box, I found
a long, slender--something--of sparkling silver.

"What is it?" I exclaimed, holding it up. "It is too long and not
wide enough for a paper-knife, although it would be famous for cutting
magazines. Is it a baton? Where did Willie find it, and what can it be?
There is something engraved on one side, something that looks like birds
on a twig,--yes, three little birds; and see the lovely cairngorm set
in the end! Oh, it has words cut in it: 'To Jean: From Hynde
Horn'--Goodness me! I've opened Miss Dalziel's package!"

Francesca made a sudden swooping motion, and caught box, cover, and
contents in her arms.

"It is mine! I know it is mine!" she cried. "You really ought not to
claim everything that is sent to the house, Penelope--as if nobody
had any friends or presents but you!" and she rushed upstairs like a
whirlwind.

I examined the outside wrapper, lying on the floor, and found, to my
chagrin, that it did bear Miss Monroe's name, somewhat blotted by the
rain; but if the box were addressed to her, why was the silver thing
inscribed to Miss Dalziel? Well, Francesca would explain the mystery
within the hour, unless she had become a changed being.

Fifteen minutes passed. Salemina was making Jubilee sandwiches at
Pettybaw House, Miss Dalziel was asleep in her room, I was being
devoured slowly by curiosity, when Francesca came down without a word,
walked out of the front door, went up to the main street, and entered
the village post-office without so much as a backward glance. She was
a changed being, then! I might as well be living in a Gaboriau novel, I
thought, and went up into my little painting and writing room to address
a programme of the Pettybaw celebration to Lady Baird, watch for the
glimpse of Willie coming down the loaning, and see if I could discover
where Francesca went from the post-office.

Sitting down by my desk, I could find neither my wax nor my silver
candlestick, my scissors nor my ball of twine. Plainly Francesca had
been on one of her borrowing tours; and she had left an additional trace
of herself--if one were needed--in a book of old Scottish ballads, open
at 'Hynde Horn.' I glanced at it idly while I was waiting for her to
return. I was not familiar with the opening verses, and these were the
first lines that met my eye:--

'Oh, he gave to his love a silver wand,
Her sceptre of rule over fair Scotland;
With three singing laverocks set thereon
For to mind her