be afraid of her. I'll ask her, if you like."

Pamela heard him cross the passage and open the kitchen door and begin
politely, "Good morning, Miss Bathgate."

"What are ye wantin' here wi' thae dirty boots?" Bella demanded.

"I came in to see the Honourable, and she has nothing to give poor Peter
to eat. Could he have a tea biscuit--not an Abernethy one, please, he
doesn't like them--or a bit of cake?"

"Of a' the impidence!" ejaculated Bella. "D'ye think I keep tea biscuits
and cake to feed dowgs wi'? Stan' there and dinna stir." She put a bit
of carpet under the small, dirty boots, and as she grumbled she wiped
her hands on a coarse towel that hung behind the door, and reached up
for a tin box from the top shelf of the press beside the fire.

"Here, see, there's yin for yerself, an' the broken bits are for Peter.
Here he comes snowkin'," as Peter ambled into the kitchen followed by
Pamela. That lady stood in the doorway.

"Do forgive me coming, but I love a kitchen. It is always the nicest
place in the house, I think; the shining tins are so cheerful, and the
red fire." She smiled in an engaging way at Bella, who, after a second,
and, as it were, reluctantly, smiled back.

"I see you have given the raider some biscuits," Pamela said.

"He's an ill laddie." Bella Bathgate looked at the Mhor standing
obediently on the bit of carpet, munching his biscuit, and her face