‘He set her on a coal-black steed,      Himself lap on behind her,
   An’ he’s awa’ to the Hieland hills
     Whare her frien’s they canna find her.’ 
 
Rob Roy.
 
The occupants of Bide-a-Wee Cottage awoke in anything but a Jubilee humour, next day. Willie had intended to come at nine, but of course did not appear. Francesca took her breakfast in bed, and came listlessly into the sitting-room at ten o’clock, looking like a ghost. Jean’s ankle was much better—the sprain proved to be not even a strain—but her wrist was painful. It was drizzling, too, and we had promised Miss Ardmore and Miss Macrae to aid with the last Jubilee decorations, the distribution of medals at the church, and the children’s games and tea on the links in the afternoon.
 
We have determined not to desert our beloved Pettybaw for the metropolis on this great day, but to celebrate it with the dear fowk o’ Fife who had grown to be a part of our lives.
 
Bide-a-Wee Cottage does not occupy an imposing position in the landscape, and the choice of art fabrics at the Pettybaw draper’s is small, but the moment it should stop raining we were intending to carry out a dazzling scheme of decoration that would proclaim our affectionate respect for the ‘little lady in black’ on her Diamond Jubilee. But would it stop raining?—that was the question. The draper wasna certain that so licht a shoo’r could richtly be called rain. The village weans were yearning for the hour to arrive when they might sit on the wet golf-course and have tea; manifestly, therefore, it could not be a bad day for Scotland; but if it should grow worse, what would become of our mammoth subscription bonfire on Pettybaw Law—the bonfire that Brenda Macrae was to light, as the lady of the manor?
 
There were no deputations to request the honour of Miss Macrae’s distinguished services on this occasion; that is not the way the self-respecting villager comports himself in Fifeshire. The chairman of the local committee, a respectable gardener, called upon Miss Macrae at Pettybaw House, and said, “I’m sent to tell ye ye’re to have the pleasure an’ the honour of lichtin’ the bonfire the nicht! Ay, it’s a grand chance ye’re havin’, miss, ye’ll remember it as long as ye live, I’m thinkin’!”
 
When I complimented this rugged soul on his decoration of the triumphal arch under which the school-children were to pass, I said, “I think if her Majesty could see it, she would be pleased with our village to-day, James.”
 
“Ay, ye’re richt, miss,” he replied complacently. “She’d see that Inchcawdy canna compeer wi’ us; we’ve patronised her weel in Pettybaw!”
 
Truly, as Stevenson says, ‘he who goes fishing among the Scots peasantry with condescension for a bait will have an empty basket by evening.’
 
At eleven o’clock a boy arrived at Bide-a-Wee with an interesting-looking package, which I promptly opened. That dear foolish lover of mine (whose foolishness is one of the most adorable things about him) makes me only two visits a day, and is therefore constrained to send me some reminder of himself in the intervening hours, or minutes—a book, a flower, or a note. Uncovering the pretty 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 of him when he was gone.
 
   And his love gave to him a gay gold ring
   With three shining diamonds set therein;
   Oh, his love gave to him this gay gold ring,
   Of virtue and value above all thing.’ 
 
A light dawned upon me! The silver mystery, then, was intended for a wand—and a very pretty way of making love to an American girl, too, to call it a ‘sceptre of rule over fair Scotland’; and the three birds were three singing laverocks ‘to mind her of him when he was gone’!
 
But the real Hynde Horn in the dear old ballad had a truelove who was not captious and capricious and cold like Francesca. His love gave him a gay gold ring—
 
  ‘Of virtue and value above all thing.’ 
 
Yet stay: behind the ballad book flung heedlessly on my desk was—what should it be but the little morocco case, empty now, in which our Francesca keeps her dead mother’s engagement ring—the mother who died when she was a wee child. Truly a very pretty modern ballad to be sung in these unromantic, degenerate days!
 
Francesca came in at the door behind me, saw her secret reflected in my tell-tale face, saw the sympathetic moisture in my eyes, an............