d heard the tale often enough.
Their Aunt Nannie had been their mother's beautiful young sister, and
the news of her death had come to them when Robbie was a baby of a week
old. They had never even seen her, for Duncan was but a year old, and
Elsie not three, when she died, and she had been living in England with
her English husband at the time.

"Robbie reminds me so of her," Mrs. MacDougall said softly. "She was
fair. He takes after her wonderfully, doesn't he, mother?"

"Very much indeed," the old dame replied.

"Ah well! Robbie must have some fresh cakes to-morrow for his birthday
and a plate of plums, and you can have your tea under the big alder an'
Elsie shall pour it out."

"Oh, thank you, mother, how nice!" the little boys exclaimed. Elsie's
ungracious silence passed unnoticed by all but Duncan.

"P'raps I shan't be here to pour it out," she said, in a careless tone,
when they were outside the door. "Mind you don't forget the atlas,
Duncan."

Then they started off to school. It was a longish walk across the moor
and along a dusty road to the nearest village. Robbie, although seven
years old, was exempted from going on account of the distance and his
delicacy. Elsie bore in mind that Duncan had gone before he was that
age, but Robbie was such a petted baby. He was not nearly so strong as
Duncan had been at his age.

Duncan's was a very placid, slow sort of mind. He went through his tasks
without any excitement or distraction, although occasionally a vague
curiosity as to what Elsie could want the atlas for, and what the letter
said about them, did wander through his brain. When school was ended he
slipped out unobserved with a small atlas, which he had had difficulty
to secure, under his jacket.

Elsie was waiting for him at the edge of the moor. They sat down on some
stones, and Elsie pulled the letter from inside the neck of her dress.

"I shan't say anything; I shall read it to you," she began; "and if you
can't make anything of it I s'pose I must explain it afterwards. It's
from our father to Mrs. MacDougall."

"What, to mother?" Duncan asked.

"H'm, you'll see presently," Elsie said impatiently. "Worst of it is,
there's a piece torn off all along, which makes it difficult to read. It
begins, 'Dear Mrs. MacDougall.' Oh, I forgot. It's put at the top,
'Kensington, London.' That's the capital of England, you know, and it
means that the person what wrote it lived there."

"But father didn't, did