"That's Polly! Where is she? That's you, Jock, you horrid boy."

"Well, I didn't see why she shouldn't enjoy herself."

"Now you've been and lost her. Poll, Poll!"

"I have her!" called back Mr. Ogilvie. "I'll bring her to the gate."

Thanks came through the hedge, and the brother and sister walked on.

"It's old Ogre. Cut!" growled in what was meant to be an aside, a
voice the master knew full well, and there was a rushing off of feet,
like ponies in a field.

When the sheep gate was reached, a great furniture van was seen
standing at the door of the "Folly," and there appeared a troop of
boys and girls in black, eager to welcome their pet.

"Thank you, sir; thank you very much. Come, Polly," said the eldest
boy, taking possession of the bird.

"I think we have met before," said the schoolmaster to the younger
ones, glad to see that two-—i.e. the new Robert and Armine Brownlow-—
had not joined in the sauve qui peut.

Nay, Robert turned and said, "Mother, it is Mr. Ogilvie."

Then that gentleman was aware that one of the black figures had a
widow's cap, with streamers flying behind her in the breeze, but
while he was taking off his hat and beginning, "Mrs. Brownlow," she