answered. "What is it, exactly—or, rather, what has it been?"
"Mr. Parslewe says it was a sixteenth-century peel tower—a sort of castle, you know," she answered. "There are a good many here and there, on each side of the Tweed. We stayed for some time at Berwick when we came to England, looking round for an old place. Then we found this, and settled down. It's delightful in summer, and in winter it's weird!"
"Has it a name?" I asked. "Because it's not marked on my map."
"Name?—Yes!" she answered. "It's called Kelpieshaw—that's Kelpie Strand, that lies outside it, between Langlee Crags and Hedgehope Hill. But you'll see more in the morning—if the storm's cleared."
The old woman came in with the tea-tray. Whether she resented my presence or not, she knew her duties, and her home-made cakes were as good as her face was stern.
"That's our sole domestic," observed my hostess, as she poured out the tea. "Tibbie Muir: she's been with us ever since we came here. The old man you saw in the kitchen is
