because it had become known in the village that we had moved every
stick of furniture in the house out of its accustomed place and taken
the dressing-tables away from the windows,--"thae windys," she called
them.

I discussed this matter fully with Mr. Anstruther later on. He laughed
heartily, but confessed, with an amused relish of his national
conservatism, that to his mind there certainly was something radical,
advanced, and courageous in taking a dressing-table away from its
place, back to the window, and putting it anywhere else in a room. He
would be frank, he said, and acknowledge that it suggested an
undisciplined and lawless habit of thought, a disregard for authority,
a lack of reverence for tradition, and a riotous and unbridled
imagination.

This view of the matter gave us exquisite enjoyment. "But why?" I
asked laughingly. "The dressing-table is not a sacred object, even to
a woman. Why treat it with such veneration? Where there is but one
good light, and that immediately in front of the window, there is
every excuse for the British custom, but when the light is well
diffused, why not place the table wherever it looks well?"

"Ah, but it doesn't look well anywhere but back to the window," said
Mr. Anstruther artlessly. "It belongs there, you see; it has probably
been there since the time of Malcolm Canmore, unless Margaret was too
pious to look in a mirror. With your national love of change, you
cannot conceive how soothing it is to know that whenever you enter
your gate and glance upward, you will always see the curtains parted,
and between them, like an idol in a shrine, the ugly wooden back of a
little oval or oblong looking-glass. It gives one a sense of
permanence in a world where all is fleeting."

The public interest in our doings seems to be entirely of a friendly
nature, and if our neighbors find a hundredth part of the charm and
novelty in us that we find in them, they are fortunate indeed, and we
cheerfully sacrifice our privacy on the altar of the public good.

A village in Scotland is the only place I can fancy where housekeeping
becomes an enthralling occupation. All drudgery disappears in a rosy
glow of unexpected, unique, and stimulating conditions. I would rather
superintend Miss Grieve and cause the light of amazement to gleam ten
times daily in her humid eye, than lead a cotillion with Willie
Beresford. I would rather do the marketing for our humble breakfasts
and teas, or talk over