Miss Lammas eyed me critically.

"No; you have a mournful temperament. I think I can trust you,"
she answered. "Do you think you could communicate to my aunt the
fact that you are a Cairngorm and a neighbor? I am sure she would
like to know."

I leaned toward the old lady, inflating my lungs for a yell. But
Miss Lammas stopped me.

"That is not of the slightest use," she remarked. "You can write
it on a bit of paper. She is utterly deaf."

"I have a pencil," I answered; "but I have no paper. Would my cuff
do, do you think?"

"Oh, yes!" replied Miss Lammas, with alacrity; "men often do that."

I wrote on my cuff: "Miss Lammas wishes me to explain that I am
your neighbor, Cairngorm." Then I held out my arm before the old
lady's nose. She seemed perfectly accustomed to the proceeding,
put up her glasses, read the words, smiled, nodded, and addressed
me in the unearthly voice peculiar to people who hear nothing.

"I knew your grandfather very well," she said. Then she smiled and
nodded to me again, and to her niece, and relapsed into silence.

"It is all right," remarked Miss Lammas. "Aunt Bluebell knows she
is deaf, and does not say much, like the parrot. You see, she knew