re of that!' And she does take care of it! O Lord! The only
millionaire I ever saw in my life was ugly enough to frighten a baby
into convulsions!"

"What was his name?" asked Helmsley.

"Well, it wouldn't be fair to tell his name now, after what I've said!"
laughed Reay--"Besides, he lives in America, thank God! He's one of the
few who have spared the old country his patronage!"

Here a diversion was created by the necessity of serving the tiny but
autocratic Charlie with his usual "dish of cream," of which he partook
on Mary's knee, while listening (as was evident from the attentive
cocking of his silky ears) to the various compliments he was accustomed
to receive on his beauty. This business over, they rose from the
tea-table. The afternoon had darkened into twilight, and the autumnal
wind was sighing through the crannies of the door. Mary stirred the fire
into a brighter blaze, and drawing Helmsley's armchair close to its warm
glow, stood by him till he was comfortably seated--then she placed
another chair opposite for Reay, and sat down herself on a low oaken
settle between the two.

"This is the pleasantest time of the day just now,"--she said--"And the
best time for talking! I love the gloaming. My father loved it too."

"So did _my_ father!" and Reay's eyes softened as he bent them on the
sparkling fire--"In winter evenings when the darkness fell down upon our
wild Highland hills, he would come home to our shieling on the edge of
the moor, shaking all the freshness of the wind and the scent of the
dying heather out of his plaid as he threw it from his shoulders,--and
he would toss fresh peat on the fire till it blazed red and golden, and
he would lay his hand on my head and say to me: 'Come awa' bairnie! Now
for a bogle story in the gloamin'!' Ah, those bogle stories! They are
answerable for a good deal in my life! They made me want to write bogle
stories myself!"

"And _do_ you write them?" asked Mary.

"Not exactly. Though perhaps all human life is only a bogle tale!
Invented to amuse the angels!"

She smiled, and taking up a delicate piece of crochet lace, which she
called her "spare time work," began to ply the glittering needle in and
out fine intricacies of thread, her shapely hands gleaming like
alabaster in the fire-light reflections.

"Well, now tell us your own bogle tale!" she said--"And David and I will
play the angels!"

CHAPTER XV

He watched her working for a few minutes befo