A Red Tam-O'-Shanter

The thought of gentle nuns and school-girls as neighbors
amused me. All I asked was that they should keep
to their own side of the wall.

I heard behind me the careful step of Bates.

"Good morning, Mr. Glenarm. I trust you rested
quite well, sir."

His figure was as austere, his tone as respectful and
colorless as by night. The morning light gave him a
pallid cast. He suffered my examination coolly enough;
his eyes were, indeed, the best thing about him.

"This is what Mr. Glenarm called the platform. I
believe it's in Hamlet, sir."

I laughed aloud. "Elsinore: A Platform Before the
Castle."

"It was one of Mr. Glenarm's little fancies, you might
call it, sir."

"And the ghost,-where does the murdered majesty of
Denmark lie by day?"

"I fear it wasn't provided, sir! As you see, Mr. Glenarm,
the house is quite incomplete. My late master had
not carried out all his plans."

Bates did not smile. I fancied he never smiled, and
I wondered whether John Marshall Glenarm had played
upon the man's lack of humor. My grandfather had
been possessed of a certain grim, ironical gift at jesting,
and quite likely he had amused himself by experimenting
upon his serving man.

"You may breakfast when you like, sir,"-and thus
admonished I went into the refectory.

A newspaper lay at my plate; it was the morning's
issue of a Chicago daily. I was, then, not wholly out of
the world, I reflected, scanning the head-lines.

"Your grandfather rarely examined the paper. Mr.
Glenarm was more particularly interested in the old
times. He wasn't what you might call up to date,-if
you will pardon the expression, sir."