"I am glad the lark sang so beautifully all the while he was eating,"
said Margary.

While they were eating their own supper, the oldest woman in the
village came in. She was one hundred and twenty years old, and, by
reason of her great age, was considered very wise.

"Have you seen the stranger?" asked she in her piping voice, seating
herself stiffly.

"Yes," replied Margary's mother. "He hath supped with us."

The oldest woman twinkled her eyes behind her iron-bowed spectacles.
"Lawks!" said she. But she did not wish to appear surprised, so she
went on to say she had met him on the way, and knew who he was.

"He's a Lindsay," said the oldest woman, with a nod of her
white-capped head. "I tried him wi' a buttercup. I held it under his
chin, and he loves butter. So he's a Lindsay; all the Lindsays love
butter. I know, for I was nurse in the family a hundred years ago."

This, of course, was conclusive evidence. Margary and her mother
had faith in the oldest woman's opinion; and so did all the other
villagers. She told a good many people how the little stranger was
a Lindsay, before she went to bed that night. And he really was a
Lindsay, too; though it was singular how the oldest woman divined it
with a buttercup.

The pretty child had straightway driven off in his coach-and-four as
soon as he had left Margary's mother's cottage; he had only stopped