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 politeuess, 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'll 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 somewhat impecunious owner.
We could see its great round towers, standing grim and grey on the hill-side commanding the whole of the valley, long before we approached it, and when we drove into the grounds we found a
