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and began  to  study  the  prescriptions  as  soon  as they  got  out  into  the  street  again. To some  few the deciphering  seemed  an  easy  task,  but  more often a long  poring  and  an  ominous  shake  of  the head betokened  that  the  problem  was  too  hard. It got  dusk,  I could  no  longer  distinguish  features, but I stared  over  at  the  old  building. Just as  the dispensary then  was,  with  its  dark-red  tiled  walls, its porched  gables,  its  weather-cocks  and  towers, and its  leaden  casements,  it  had  stood  as  a monu- ment ever since  the  days  of  Christian  IV. Even the swan  which  was  its  sign  then  was  its  sign  now, standing quietly  with  a gold  ring  round  his  neck, and riding  boots  on  bis  feet,  and  with  his  wings just raised  for  flight. A burst of  boyish  laughter in a side  room,  and  a very  old-maidish  tap  at the  door,  broke  off  the  train  of  thought  which I was just  entering  into  on  the  subject  of  caged birds.

As I said  “Come  in,”  the  elder  of  my  landladies, Miss Martha,  came  in,  dropped  an  old-fashioned curtsey, asked  how  I felt,  and  after  much  circum- locution, invited me  to  take  coffee  with  them  that evening.

“It isn’t  good  for  you,  my  dear  lieutenant,  to sit  all  alone  in  the  dark,”  she  added. “Won’t you just come  and  sit  with  us  at  once? Old Mrs.  Skau and my  brother’s  lassies  are  come  already,  they will amuse  you,  perhaps,  for  you  know  you  are  so fond  of  merry  bairns.”

Yes, I accepted  the  friendly  bidding. As I stepped  into  the  room,  a pile  of  wood  which  blazed up in  a great  four-cornered  stove,  threw  an  un- steady glare over  the  apartment,  which  was  long and deep,  and  furnished  in  the  old  style  with  higli- backed chairs  covered  with  gilt  Russian  leather, and one  of  those  sofas  calculated  to  the  meridian of hoops  and  pigtails. The walls  were  adorned with portraits  of  stiff  dames  with  hard  features and powdered  heads  of  city  worthies,  and  other famous characters  in  buff  coats  and  cuirasses  and red gowns.

“You really  must  excuse  us,  Lieutenant  A ,

for not  having  lit  the  lights,”  said  Miss  Cecilia, the younger  sister,  who  in  every  day  life  was  called “Mother Cis,”  as  she  came  to  meet  me  with  a curtsey  own  brother  to  her  sister’s; “but  the bairns are  so  glad  to  tumble  about  before  the  fire in the  gloaming,  and  Mother  Skau,  too,  likes  to have  a little  gossip  in  the  chimney  corner.”

“Gossip me  here,  gossip  me  there. You’re fond enough  yourself,  Mother  Cis,  of  a bit  of scandal  during  blind  man’s  holiday,  and  yet  we’re to bear  all  the  blame,”  answered  the  old  asthmatic dame, whose  name  was  Mother  Skau.

“Well, well,”  she  went  on,  “how  d’ye  do, father? Come and  sit  down  by  me,  and  tell  me how  you  are  going  on; deary  me,  but  you’re dreadfully pulled  down!” and  so  she  chuckled  over her own  ailments.

So I had  to  tell  her  all  about  my  fever,  and received in  return  a long  and  detailed  account  of her  gout  and  asthmatic  afflictions,  which  by  good luck was  broken  off  by  the  noisy  entry  of  the children from  the  kitchen,  whither  they  had  been to pay  a visit  to  the  old  housekeeper  and  domestic calendar, ’Stina.

“Auntie, auntie!” bawled  out  a little,  buxom, brown-eyed thing,  “do  you  know  what  ’Stina says. She says  I shall  go  with  her  to-night  to the  hay-loft,  and  give  the  brownie  his  Christmas goose. But I won’t  go,  not  I,  for  I’m  afraid  of the  brownie.”

“Oh! ’Stina only  says  that  to  get  rid  of  you.

She daren’t  go  to  the  hay-loft  in  the  dark  herself, the goose! for she  knows  well  enough  she  was once scared  by  the  brownie,”  said  Miss  Martha.

“But why  don’t  you  say    how  d’ye  do  ’ to  the lieutenant, bairns?”

“Oh no,  no! is  it  you,  lieutenant?” — “I  didn’t know you!” — “How  pale  you  are!” — “It’s  so long  since  I saw  you!” — screamed  out  the  chil- dren, one after  another,  as  they  came  round  me   in  a troop. ‘ ‘ Now do  tell  us  a story — something funny; it’s so  long  since  you  told  us  a story. Pray do  tell  us  all  about  Buttercup,  dear  lieu- tenant; do tell  us  about  Buttercup  and  Gold-  , tooth.” So  I had  to  tell  them  about  Buttercup and his  dog  Goldtooh,  and  to  throw  in  besides  a I story  or  two  about  the  two  brownies,  who  drew  I away  the  hay  from  each  other,  and  how  they  met at last,  each  upon  his  own  haystack,  and  fought  I till  they  both  flew  off  in  a cloud  of  hay. I had to tell,  too,  of  the  brownie  at  Hesselberg,  who  teased the watch  dog  till  the  gudeman  tossed  him  out  at the  barn-door. At this  the  children  clapped  their  , hands, and  laughed  loud  and  long. “Serve him right, the  ugly  brownie,”  they  said,  and  asked for more.

“There, there,  bairns,”  said  Mother  Cis,  “don’t tease the  lieutenant  any  more. Now Aunt  Martha will tell  you  a story.”

“Yes, yes! do tell,  Aimt  Martha!” was  the cry of  one  and  all.

“I’m sure  I don’t  know  what  to  tell,  answered Aunt Martha;  “but  since  we’ve  got  to  talk about the  brownie,  I’ll  tell  you  a little  story  about him. I daresay, bairns,  you  mind  old  Katie Gusdal, who  used  to  come  and  bake  bannocks, and always  had  so  many  stories  to  tell?”

“Oh, yes!” bawled  out  the  children.

“Well, old  Katie  told  us  that  she  once  lived at service  in  the  Foundling  here  for  many  a year.

It was  then  still  more  lonely  and  sad  at  that  side of the  town  than  it  is  now; and  as  for  the Foundling, we  all  know  it’s  a dark  and  gloomy house. Well, when  Katie  took  the  place  she  was to be  cook; and  a fine  stout  strapping  lassie  she was. One night,  when  she  had  to  get  up  to brew,  the  rest  of  the  servants  said  to  her,  ‘ Now you must  mind  and  take  care  not  to  get  up  too early; before the  clock  strikes  two  you  mustn’t put the  wort  on  the  fire. ’

“‘ Why not? ’ she asked.

“‘You know,  well  enough,  there’s  a brownie here; and you  ought  to  know,  too,  he  doesn’t like to  be  roused  so  early; and  so  before  the  clock strikes two,  you’re  not  to  think  of  meddling  with the wort,  ’ they  said.

“‘ Stuff! nothing worse  than  that?’  said  Katie, who had  a tongue  and  a will  of  her  own,  as  they say. ‘ I have nothing  to  do  with  the  brownie; but if  he  comes  across  me,  may  the  old  gentleman take me  if  I don’t  sweep  him  out  of  the  house! ’

“Well, the  rest  warned  her  again,  but  she stuck to  her  own; and  when  the  clock,  might  be,