Dr White is something of a legend in Edinburgh. Her work among some of the poorest and drug addicted, established her as a highly popular figure with a saintly reputation, as both friend and counsellor to her many patients. The widespread affection and admiration that she inspired is justly deserved. As her remarkable story reveals, a woman of extraordinary courage and compassion, strongwilled yet disarmingly modest about her own considerable achievements.

 This book will attract far more than just local interest; her account of practicing medicine, her involvement with drug addicts and the dramas of an extended family should exercise a broad appeal to the general reader.
Dr Pamela White can be contacted at:   anne.moncreiff@gmail.com

To-night I have decided to try and start the story of my life - I'm not sure why, but several people have suggested I should, so here goes. I'm alone to-night at the cottage except for Jasper the cat. I have been retired for six weeks and have a peculiar feeling of marking time. If all had gone to plan, I should have been living here with dear old Ernie but this was not to be. Shortly before he died Kate asked him: "Grandad, if you could have a wish come true what would you wish for?"

"To live with Granny at the cottage," was his prompt reply. Since he died I have tried not to look to the future - it is too uncertain and too painful to feel the long days and years ahead without my Ern. Now I will look to the past and try and tell my story.

I was born on 17 July 1927 at two minutes to twelve at Doncaster Royal Infirmary. My parents were Lord & Lady Moncreiff of Tullibole and I was their seventh child - but I very nearly wasn't. Mother told me, a few years before she died, that when she discovered she was pregnant with me she felt quite desperate and tried to find someone to perform a termination but, luckily for me, she was unsuccessful. They had been pleased to have the first five children, 3 girls and 2 boys, and then, after a gap of 4½ years, the youngest of my brothers, Bob, was born. That was bad enough, but when, after a further 3 years I was conceived, my poor mother felt it was too much for her to cope with, yet cope she did.

For the first five years we lived for a short time at Edinthorpe Hall and then in a large old house called Hatfield House, several miles from Doncaster, where my mother's parents still lived and I suppose it was partly to be near them that we were living in England. My mother's parents also came from Scotland. Her father was Dr Anderson and came originally from Pitfar House near Dollar. He studied medicine at Edinburgh University where he was one of their youngest students. I remember my mother telling me that at one time he had lived in a house in Castle Street which was haunted by a poltergeist. All sorts of strange phenomena occurred - dishes flying through the air, furniture moving of its own accord, etc. The police were called in and because of his youth the finger of suspicion was pointed at him. No explanation came to light and eventually the house was pulled down.

After he graduated he went to Peterhead where he was a GP for many years and where he met my grandmother, Elizabeth Moir. He found GP work too harrowing and eventually went into public health, and when my mother was in her late teens, moved down to Doncaster as Medical Officer of Health. It was there she met my father who was classics master at Doncaster High School. They were married in December 1909 and in May 1913 he succeeded to the title of 4th Baron of Tullibole, Baronet of Nova Scotia and Baronet of the United Kingdom. My mother used to say to me she thought it unfortunate that he came into his inheritance so soon. He was highly intelligent, a Classics graduate from Oxford and a brilliant athlete. His inheritance was no vast fortune; in fact he was not allowed to touch the capital (which was in trust) but could just live on the interest - which was enough to make him lose ambition. He had by this time left his position at Doncaster High School and become Headmaster of a Boys' Prep School in Bridge of Allan, but retired after his father died.

He was fifty five when I was born and living the life of a country gentleman. My Mother was forty with plenty to do looking after seven children and helping to care for her elderly parents.

Hatfield was, I believe, a beautiful old house but I have few clear memories of it except for a long corridor with a green carpet which I found rather terrifying, and a dim recollection of a nursery with a coal fire and myself lying in a large cot.

When I was 3 or 4 years old, Father, Bob and I were on the way to meet my Aunt Gladys at Doncaster Railway Station. Father was driving a new large 20 HP car when we were in a head-on collision with a lorry. I have a vision of father stepping out of the car onto the road, pulling out his pipe, which had penetrated the soft palate of his mouth, and soundly cursing the lorry driver. My poor brother had nasty lacerations down one side of his face from the temporal region and right under his chin, narrowly missing the jugular vein. I had all my front teeth knocked out and a very badly bruised mouth which was blamed in later life for my squint teeth and the scarring of my lower lip. We were driven by a passer-by first to one hospital which refused us treatment and then to the Doncaster Royal Infirmary. Bob was immediately taken away and placed behind screens. This worried me greatly and concern for him seemed to take away fear for myself; also I was prouder of my very badly bruised knee than worried about my damaged and painful mouth. It was several weeks before I could eat properly. Years later I remember my father being asked why he did not claim damages for the harm done to my looks and his reply was that he did not want my brother Bob and I going through the ordeal of a court appearance. Anyway the changes to my looks were very slight and it has never worried me at all.

Among my other memories of Hatfield days are those of falling into a bucket in the kitchen and cutting my left upper eye lid, and playing chicken with a playmate, Richard Atkinson, on the road in front of the house and narrowly missing being run down by a passing car. If we have nine lives like cats I would say I had used up three of them by the time I was four years old - once in the womb, once in the car accident, and once while playing chicken.

And then in the summer of 1932 the decision was taken to move back to Scotland and live in the ancestral home Tullibole Castle - a small but perfect example of old Scottish towerhouse architecture. The exact date of the original old tower is uncertain but it may have been built in the early 13th century by command of Edward I of England - Hammer of the Scots. There are records of his army encamping less than a mile away but no records to establish the date of the building of the original tower. The house as it is today was built in 1608, as the inscription above the front door testifies. The estate passed into the family when Archibald Moncreiff married Catherine Halliday, eldest daughter of John Halliday of Tullibole, in 1697. In 1598 an earlier John Halliday, a successful advocate, had bought the castle for the Fleming family and passed it onto his son in 1605 who then built it as it is today.

But what were the first impressions of a 5 year old girl? Well, it was a tall ivy-covered building with turrets, spiral staircases, a dark kitchen, a large dining room, a great hall with a high ceiling, but best of all the lavatories! My brother Bob and I fell about laughing when we saw them. There were two triangular rooms with sharply pointed loo seats to match exactly the shape of the little room. We thought they were hilarious and, later that day, walked through the fields to meet my brother Harry and sister Nicola off the train from Edinburgh. He carried me home on his shoulders and then I dragged him triumphantly up the stairs to see the wonderful loos.

These lavatories were part of a new wing which had been built at the turn of the century, consisting of a pump room on the ground floor and a bathroom on the two floors above it. This was the only modern part of the castle which elsewhere had 6 ft thick walls, a large kitchen with a black range, Victorian fireplaces with basket grates, but no electricity. Paraffin lamps provided the lighting - not very adequate, especially in the dining room. All the same it made a delightful family home, set among lawns and woods with a "moat" running through the garden. There was also a formal garden with herbaceous borders, roses, vegetables and fruit - all surrounded by a beautiful beech hedge.

And it was there that I spent my childhood. Being the youngest of seven I suppose I was spoilt in many ways. My parents were elderly in years but not in heart, and my brother Bob and I were given enormous freedom - you could say allowed to run wild.

But on the other hand my father especially could keep discipline when it was required - for example, during a Test Match we weren't allowed to utter a word. Even during meals he would have the wireless on and then absolute silence reigned. We used to say there was a corpse in the house. When he took a gun out to walk round the estate looking for rabbits, pheasant or any other game, we used to love to acccompany him and trudged in silence so many paces to the rear and would not have dared stray from our positions.

My mother was stout, placid and intelligent. My main memory of her is sitting at the head of the long dining room table serving out the meals. On more than a few occasions she would be slightly agitated because my father had not arrived back from the local town, Kinross, where he had been shopping and, also, having a beer at the Kirklands Hotel. When he did arrive he would go up to her, put his arm round her shoulders and say, "Give us a kiss Old Girl," and she would give him a gentle push saying, "Go and sit down Maanty," and be instantly mollified. Of course he would be sure to get the spinning plate! This mysterious plate with the uneven base. No matter how many people were there for the meal my father always seemed to get it and did he make a fuss? He did.

My eldest sister, Moira, was seventeen when I was born and by the time we moved up to Tullibole she was a dancing teacher in London - one of Miss Vaccani's young ladies. She taught in many of England's Big Houses, and even taught the Queen when she and Princess Margaret were small. At some of these great houses she was treated with great kindness and dined with the family but at others she was relegated to the nursery and ate her meals with the nanny or governess. To me she was beautiful, gentle and kind, and great fun. When she came home for the long summer holidays and at Christmas, I attached myself to her and she became a second mother.

My next sister, Vida, or Bumpy as she was called in the family, was a trained gardener and also worked down in England at a girls' school. She went to France for a year to lay out an English Garden and when she came back her French was little better than before she went. She was always full of energy, great fun and good at organising games. One of my delights as a small girl was lying in bed watching my sisters getting ready to go to a dance or evening party. Moira had a pale pink flowing chiffon evening dress which I thought was truly beautiful. Bumpy would come dashing in at the last moment and without fail something on her dress would need fixing - the hem would be down or the shoulder strap broken. After a lot of fuss and a few tears and help from Moira or Nicola, all would be well.

Harry was next in line. He had just left Fettes College and was studying engineering with Bertrams Engineers and the Heriot Watt College. He was quiet and liked physical occupations. His favourite one seemed to be romping with me and throwing me about. On one occasion he and his friend were using my small self as a quoit, throwing me from one to the other over the high net. Seeing mother approaching, the one due to catch me turned round and I landed with a thud on the lawn.

 Then came Nicola, ten years older than myself. At the time of our move to Tullibole she was still at boarding school, Heytons Ladies' College. She was very pretty with dark wavy hair and brown eyes and always very neat and tidy. She was probably one of the more "highly strung" - to use a non-professional but descriptive term - and when she was upset used to run up the spiral staircase to her little bedroom. Bob and I used to creep up after her and sit outside her door on the stone steps, wishing to comfort her but not knowing how to do so.

Donald was next; small, dark, good-looking and very well behaved. He was a weekly boarder at Dollar Academy, coming home for the weekends and somehow managing to do his homework in the drawing room on Sunday evenings in the midst of noise and chatter. The drawing room was a beautiful room with windows facing north, west and south. The walls, as in the rest of the house, were 6 ft thick. There was a marble fireplace and mantlepiece with a large basket grate. In the winter it was warm and in the summer cool. The furniture was antique and delicate, including a marble and gilt console table on which stood a beautiful French gilt and porcelain clock and side ornaments. It was there that most of us gathered to play cards, eat home made toffee, and generally amuse ourselves before the older ones dispersed again to their various destinations.

And then there was Bob - my constant and often only companion. I have a suspicion that most of my childhood recollections will start with "Bob and I". He was fair-haired, blue-eyed and not so quiet as the other two boys.

To help mother run the home there was usually cook, and a house table maid, and a full-time gardener who lived in a cottage in the grounds. During the week in term time there was only Bob and I at home with often Harry, Nicola and Donald at weekends, but during the long summer holidays and at Christmas everyone would be at home, along with numerous friends and relations, and so the household varied from four to fourteen (or even more) and from being quiet to very noisy, but always cheerful.

As I was now five years old I started school in early September 1932. We went to Dollar Academy which was 7 miles away. To reach it we had to walk approximately 1½ miles to catch the train at Crook of Devon which took us to Dollar.

I remember standing proudly with Bob at the front door of the Castle in our brand new uniforms while Nicola took our photographs. I was so small my tie showed beneath the hem of my tunic and, with my round velour hat, I looked a bit like a mushroom. We had to walk or cycle the mile and a half to the railway station at Crook of Devon where we caught the train which took us to Dollar and its famous Academy. When I was a little older there was many a day when I raced along the last stretch, neck and neck with the little puffer train, cheered on by my school friends in the train. I would throw my bike down and jump into the train just as it was leaving. In fine weather it was quite enjoyable but in wind, rain and, worst of all, slush, it was no joke. On one occasion - I was by now in secondary school - Bob and I set off for school pushing our bikes as there was about one foot of melting snow. We were struggling slowly through the slush when a lorry came past, spraying us with the horrid stuff and knocking us into the ditch. We struggled on wet and cold but only in time to see the train leaving without us. We left our bikes on the verandah of the village hall and waited for the local bus which went to Dollar, but too late for the start of school. We eventually arrived at school tired, wet and very cold. In accordance with school rules, because we were late, we reported to the Headmaster, Mr. Bell. He began to give us a little lecture regarding time keeping, etc. This was too much for Bob who became quite angry and said, "You are jolly lucky we are here at all. We were knocked into a ditch by a lorry and are cold and soaking wet and could easily have gone straight home."

Mr Bell immediately became very solicitous. He phoned one of the Boarding Houses and sent us over to McNab House under the care of Mrs Sproat. She sat us down in front of a lovely fire, produced hot cocoa, and dry clothes for Bob. I had to wait while my own dried out but she lent me her own wellingtons. We missed two periods in the morning and of course had to leave early in the afternoon to return our borrowed clothes, so all in all it turned out a pleasant day in the end! And I even then admired and respected Mr Bell for his immediate acceptance of our explanation.

I remember very little about my actual first day at school except being introduced to a very tall unsmiling lady called Miss Falconer. She was the headmistress and I always remained a little afraid of her although I had no reason to be so. At the end of my first term, there was a parents day when samples of our work - eg simple sums, spelling, etc were displayed on the walls around the classroom. Mine were all correct but there was a big red line running through them all. My mother was standing looking at them in astonishment when Miss Falconer came up to her and said, "Isn't it disgraceful a child of Pam's intelligence does not know how to spell her name correctly?"

"Isn't it disgraceful that a headmistress does not take the trouble to find out the correct spelling of a pupil's name?" said Mother in her most imperious voice.

When I first went to school there was only one other girl in the class - Jean Mackie. She was very blonde with big blue eyes and always immaculately dressed. I was small, dark with freckles, no front teeth and not particularly tidy, and considered myself very plain beside her. Nevertheless we were good friends which is just as well when there are only two of you. Her other attribute which I admired greatly was that of falling or otherwise injuring herself and coming to school with bandages on her knees and fingers and, on more than one occasion, with a limb in plaster of paris! How I envied her. I seldom fell or tripped and if I did I was unable to produce an obvious injury for my pains. For a time I went about trying to trip myself up but did not manage to sustain even a bruise. Eventually I did need a bandage - quite a big one - after putting my hand in a letter rack where someone unbeknownst to me had left an old razor blade and I lacerated my fingers.

Life continued pretty uneventfully for a number of years. I was happy at school and generally was one of the brighter pupils but, like most other children, preferred home where we had plenty of freedom to play. Whatever brother Bob did, I did - and that included climbing up onto the roof of the castle. On one occasion I dropped my camera while playing on the roof. Mother never did know how I came to crack my camera.

One summer's day Bob and I were left alone and, for some reason I can not now remember, decided it would be a good idea to empty the moat - a stream with several sluice gates which ran through the garden and which contained delicious Loch Leven trout. Well, we opened the last sluice and the water from the main part of the moat rushed out and the poor fish lay flapping about in the mud. At this point some of the older members of the family came home. Thank goodness, for the fish were Father's pride and joy. Bob suddenly realised the enormity of what we had done and ran up into the wood to hide while the rest of the family did their best to save the fish and protect Bob from Father's wrath when he too came home.

Some leapt in to the rescue, like knights without their shining armour, and were soon up to their knees and elbows in mud as they splashed about in the black semi-liquid goo, trying to pick up the silver fish which lay stranded, flopping about and gasping for life. Others rushed up to the castle and came struggling back with buckets of water, and ran up and down the bank in answer to the calls of the rescuers who worked frantically, throwing the fish into the bucket or into the little water remaining in the moat. Gradually and slowly the moat filled up again and when it did everyone heaved a great sigh of relief and threw themselves down on the bank, exhausted and covered with mud.

Father was a great fly fisherman and fished regularly on Loch Leven where he was a member of several fishing clubs. He was the founder member of one called Tullibole Fishing Club but most days during the season liked to cast a fly in the moat. He only used dry fly but we once caught a large trout with a garden stake, string, and a bent pin with a worm. We had become a bit bored, so had stuck it in the bank and forgotten it for a while, and when we came back there was a lovely big trout on the end. We have a photograph of our friend, George Dorward, holding it up.

George was one of a large family who were our only companions apart from school friends. Their father was the porter at the local station and they lived in the railway cottage at the level crossing about ½ mile away where their mother worked the signals. There was George who was Bob's age, Davina, who was my age, followed by David, Alistair and Molly. There was an older sister brought up by Granny in Dundee and so she, in our eyes, did not count.

They were a happy and intelligent family. Mr Dorward was the first person with whom I discussed politics. Although he was in employment they must have had difficulties making ends meet with all these children and a low wage. We would quite often be asked to tea and had happy evenings when we would be expected to do our party piece, but sometimes there would only be boiled mixed vegetables with bread and margarine to follow. George and Vina came up to the castle to play and sometimes the younger ones came as well. Their favourite playroom was the top bathroom where they would splash about for hours.

But tragedy was to strike this happy family. One summer there was an outbreak of scarlet fever followed by diphtheria. Little Alistair caught diphtheria and was admitted to the fever hospital. When he came home several weeks later he looked very pale and wan and was very weak. Bob and I went down to see our friends and found Alistair sitting up in the big bed. He had been given a bag of toffees but was unable to eat them. We went outside to sit anxiously on the step. He would call first for Bob to give him a toffee and five minutes later he would call for me. This went on all afternoon until eventually we had to go home to bed. He died in the night. Although I did not seem particularly upset when given the sad news in the morning, yet it made a deep and lasting impression on me and even now I could weep for a charming little boy. What was so harrowing was the grief of his mother who was unable to forget him and often talked to me of her darling little son who had died.

A few years after this Mr Dorward changed his job and the whole family moved to Dundee where they lived in a tenement flat. Both Bob and I went to stay with them for a short holiday. Bob quite enjoyed playing with all the other boys in the street but, although Mrs Dorward did her very best to entertain me, I missed the freedom and open spaces of home. Mrs Dorward kept the flat beautifully clean and tidy but there was no bathroom and the toilet was on the stairs and shared with the next door family.

Later they moved again, this time to the Borders near Ancrum where I spent a lovely holiday walking the lanes around the beautiful village of Lilliesleaf. On one of our walks we visited a farm where the farmer took us to the yard to see a sow who had just produced numerous piglets. One of the Dorward children picked up a piglet and the next moment Mother Pig changed into a ferocious beast and we fled across the yard and over a five-barred gate in two seconds flat. I have a scar on my left forearm to this day where the corrugated iron covering the gate dug into my arm.

To-day one so seldom hears of the death of the young. If one does, it is most frequently the result of an accident, but in the Thirties it was not so uncommon. Tuberculosis was the scourge of the young and some families went down with it one by one. Father used to shoot rabbits and take them to some of the poorer families who had TB in Kinross. Initially they would not eat them but, after a cookery demonstration from Father, they learned to like stewed rabbit and looked forward to their weekly supply. We also loved rabbit and, when we had a large household, rabbit was nearly always on the menu as a second choice and was very popular.

Looking back over the years it is difficult to know how aware one was at the time of the poverty of the Thirties. Certainly there were beggars in the streets. In Dollar there was a man who played the violin and I had to pass him on the way from school to the station as I went home. Invariably he received my daily penny pocket money.

 I just could not pass without giving him my penny. Once when visiting an Aunt in England she gave me a shilling to spend, but on my way to Woolworths I met a man begging in the street. I gave him my shilling and when my Aunt asked what I had bought with my shilling I said I had lost it. For some reason I was too embarrassed to tell her the truth.

There was one incident which fills me with shame. In the orchard near the castle there were some apple trees - mainly crab apples - and one lovely autumn day we discovered some men filling sacks with the apples. When my father challenged them, all they could say was: "We're not harming the trees, mister." They were very slow to desist and Bob and I decided to mete out our own justice. We hared through the woods to where they had left their bikes and with a pocket knife slashed their tyres. At the time we were very proud of ourselves - it would teach them to pinch our apples - but later we came to realise they were probably unemployed miners from Kelty trying to make a little money for themselves.

One of our favourite occupations was playing tricks on the long-suffering maids. We did the usual pranks like putting frogs in their beds, apple pie beds, etc, but there was one memorable occasion when we surpassed ourselves. First of all I must describe the castle in more detail. It was possible to go up one spiral staircase, along a passage, through a passage room and down another staircase. There was no electricity and it was the duty of the housemaid to go round the house and light the paraffin lamps in the bedrooms. This day, or should I say night, the older members of the family were having a formal dance downstairs and we thought it would be fun to scare the visitors. We passed a strong line of string from the door at one end of the passage room to the door at the other end. We took a clothes hanger and draped a sheet over it, bunching it up for a head, and inserted two small torches, one pointing one way and one pointing the other, and then hung it on the line in the middle of the room. To the hanger was attached two other strings. Bob held one behind one door and I held the other behind the second door so that if Bob pulled the string it floated gently towards him and if I pulled my string it floated towards me. We set it up and took up our stations and waited. Just as it became dark, this young unsuspecting housemaid came up the stairs carrying her lamp and a box of matches. She opened the passage room door, a ghostly apparition came floating silently towards her - and she ran screaming down the stairs. This caused quite a sensation at the party and later a succession of visitors came upstairs to see the Ghost of Tullibole.

Despite our pranks we can't have been too objectionable because Nellie the cook and Isa the house table-maid used to spoil us. I loved to go down to the kitchen and listen to their stories and be made a fuss of, sitting in the winter evenings in front of the big range, eating some goodies Nellie would produce. Quite often on their day off they would wash my face, brush my hair, dress me in my best clothes (always made by my Mother, how I longed for clothes, especially a coat, bought in a shop), and my straw hat, and take me to their homes to see their parents and occasionally to stay the night.

I shall never forget the cottage Nellie's parents lived in at Crossgates. It was a detached brick cottage with a garden where her father grew the largest leeks I have ever seen. Inside, the cottage was shining, everything was polished and brightly gleaming - the chairs, table, windows, the old range and the wally dogs on the mantlepiece. It was beautiful.

On one particular afternoon Bob was with me and Nellie asked us to go to the shop for something, which we did. As I said, we were all spruced up and some local kids waylaid us and started throwing stones and shouting: "You would think your father was a Lord." We had great fun throwing stones back and shouting, "He is."

Nellie was a wonderful cook and very economical, I remember my mother remarking. She had numerous large horrific scars with deformities of her wrists and ankles. Seemingly she had suffered from pyaemia as a child, ie. recurrent abscesses often afflicting the bones, and she would regale me with stories about how she used to run and hide away when the doctor came and had to be held down while he lanced the abscess, packed the wound and changed the dressing. Can you imagine that happening today? The more I think about it, the more grateful I am that I was born when I was. With the discovery of M & B, the first antibiotic, and later penicillin, that kind of condition was to become very rare and nowadays, at least for minor conditions, people expect and usually get an instant cure.

Eventually Nellie had to go. She and Isa became increasingly jealous of one another and had blazing rows. I was standing in the kitchen listening to them shouting when suddenly a kitchen knife went whizzing through the air past my ear. This was too much even for my tolerant mother and poor Nellie departed amid tears and lamentations. Later though she came back to us after Isa left to get married.

We did not spend all our time getting into mischief but when one looks back these are the occasions one tends to remember. For example one afternoon we were feeling somewhat bored and decided to have a game of darts. We did not have a dart board so, in place of one, chose a portrait - a dark one of a solemn looking gentleman - years later I discovered it was by Raeburn!

We both loved animals and had numerous pets, mostly cats and guinea pigs and, after years of saving, a pony. We were desperate for a pony and after pleading with our parents they eventually relented and said we could have one if we saved up most of the purchase price. Then began a period of begging and hoarding. All of our many visitors were very good and gave us contributions when they were leaving. I kept my money in a little tin box which I buried in the garden. Perhaps I thought it would multiply in the earth - anyway I know my savings were larger than Bob's and when eventually we did buy a pony I failed to see why we should go fifty-fifty with riding time when the contribution to purchase power was three to two.

My faith in Bob remained undiminished all the same and when one of our kittens, a little ginger and white tom, became desperately ill with bloody diarrhoea, I could not bear to see it suffer any longer. We discussed the matter and eventually decided to put it out of its misery and the best way to do this was to shoot it. Bob got his .22 rifle and I took the little creature out on to the lawn, stroking it gently and talking to it all the time. I lay down on my stomach and held the kitten at arms length while Bob fired a single shot, killing it instantly. We gave it a dignified burial and when the family returned there were two very sad small people sitting in the dining room in front of the fire - one in father's arm chair and one in mother's.

Our most famous cat was called Butchen - Butchenvitch or Butch for short. She was a small black and white female and had numerous kittens but, unlike any other cat I have heard of, used to scream with each delivery. One summer's night I was awakened by the most piercing screams. There was Butch at the foot of the bed having kittens. I picked up a blanket, leaving the comfortable bed to Butch, and staggered half asleep to one of the spare rooms, threw myself onto the bare mattress and fell fast asleep. Suddenly the screams rang out again and there was Butch giving birth to her second kitten, having deserted the first. There was nothing for it but to gather her up in my arms along with the second kitten and my blanket, and pad down the stone spiral staircase to join the first kitten in my bed. I sat up until she had produced four healthy kittens, then we all curled up and went fast asleep. She was a very gentle and affectionate animal. If I retired to bed for a little weep, which I did occasionally, she would nuzzle her face to mine, gently touch my cheek with her paw and purr comfortingly. On the