to my uncle, Sir George Little. Having known Dumfries since my earliest
boyhood, and having spent some years of my youth there, I had many
friends in the vicinity, for Sir George and my aunt were very popular in
the county and moved in the best set.

Each time I returned from abroad I was always a welcome guest at
Greenlaw, as their place outside the city of Burns was called, and this
occasion proved no exception, for the country houses of Dumfries are
always gay in August in prospect of the shooting.

"Some new people have taken Rannoch Castle. Rather nice they seem,"
remarked my aunt as we were sitting together at luncheon the day after
my arrival. "Their name is Leithcourt, and they've asked me to drive you
over there to tennis this afternoon."

"I'm not much of a player, you know, aunt. In Italy we don't believe in
athletics. But if it's out of politeness, of course, I'll go."

"Very well," she said. "Then I'll order the victoria for three."

"There are several nice girls there, Gordon," remarked my uncle
mischievously. "You have a good time, so don't think you are going to be
bored."

"No fear of that," was my answer. And at three o'clock Sir George, his
wife, and myself set out for that fine old historic castle that stands
high on the Bognie, overlooking the Cairn waters beyond Dunscore, one of
the strongholds of the Black Douglas in those turbulent days of long
ago, and now a splendid old residence with a big shoot which was
sometimes let for the season at a very high rent by its aristocratic if