On the summit were some more ornamental villa-like houses, and grey stone buildings with dark tiled roofs, but the expansion on that side had been checked by extensive private grounds.  There were very beautiful woods coming almost close to the town, and in the absence of the owner, a great moneyed man, they were open to all those who did not make themselves obnoxious to the keepers; and these, under an absentee proprietor, gave a free interpretation to rights of way.  Thither were the Ogilvies bound, in search of primrose banks, but their way led them past two or three houses on the hill-top, one of which, being constructed on supposed Chinese principles of architecture, was known to its friends as “the Pagoda,” to its foes as “the Folly.”  It had been long untenanted, but this winter it had been put into complete repair, and two rooms, showing a sublime indifference to consistency of architecture, had been lately built out with sash windows and a slated roof, contrasting oddly with the frilled and fluted tiles of the tower from which it jutted.

Suddenly there sounded close to their ears the words-—"School time, my dear!”

Starting and looking round for some impertinent street boy, Mr. Ogilvie exclaimed, “What’s that?”

“Mother Carey!  We are all Mother Carey’s chickens.”

“See, there,” exclaimed Mary, and a great parrot was visible on the branch of a sumach, which stretched over the railings of the low wall of the pagoda garden.  “O you appropriate bird,—-you surely ought not to be here!”

To which the parrot replied, “Hic, haec, hoc!” and burst out in a wild scream of laughing, spreading her grey wings, and showing intentions of flying away; but Mr. Ogilvie caught hold of the chain that hung from her leg.

Just then voices broke out—-

“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.”