friend, Miss Hendry.
"My! Mrs. Thomson, it's lovely! Whit a carpet—pile near up to your knees!"
"D'ye like the colouring, Miss Hendry?" asked Mrs. Thomson.
Miss Hendry looked round at the yellow walls and bright gilt picture frames shining in the strong incandescent light.
"Mrs. Thomson," she said solemnly, "it's chaste!"
Mrs. Thomson sighed as if the burden of her magnificence irked her, then: "How d'ye think the evening's goin'?" she whispered.
"Very pleasant," Miss Hendry whispered back, "What about a game?"
"I don't know," said poor Mrs. Thomson. "I would say it would be the very thing, but mebbe Jessie wouldn't think it genteel."
A girl stood up beside the piano with her violin, and somebody said "Hush!" loudly, so Mrs. Thomson at once subsided, in so far as a very stout person can subside in an inadequate cane chair, and composed herself to listen to Scots airs very well played. The familiar tunes cheered the company wonderfully; in fact, they so raised Mr. Taylor's spirits that, to Jessie's great disgust, and in spite of the raised eyebrows of the Simpsons, he pranced in the limited space left in the middle of the room and invited anyone who liked to take a turn with him.
"Jolly thing a fiddle," said Stewart Stevenson cheerily to Miss Muriel Simpson.
"The violin is always nice," primly replied Miss Muriel, "but I don't care for Scotch airs—they're so common. We like high-class music."
"Perhaps you play yourself?" Mr. Stevenson suggested.
"Oh no," said Miss Muriel in a surprised tone.
"Do you care for reading?" he asked her sister.
"Oh, I like it well enough, but it's an awful waste of time."
"Are you so very busy, then?"
"Well, what with calling, and going into town, and the evenings so taken up with dances and bridge parties, it's quite a rush."
"It must be," said Mr. Stevenson.
"And besides," said Miss Gertrude, "we do quite a lot of fency work."
"But still, Gertrude," her sister reminded her, "we nearly always read on Sunday afternoons."
"That's so," said Gertrude; "but people have got such a way of dropping in to tea. By the way, Mr. Stevenson, we'll hope to see you, if you should happen to be in our direction any Sunday."
"That is very kind of you," said Mr. Stevenson.
"There!" cried Mrs. Thomson, bounding in her chair, "Miss Elizabeth's going to sing. That's fine!"
Stewart Stevenson looked over his shoulder and saw a girl standing at the piano. She was slight and straight and tall—more than common tall—grey-eyed and golden-haired, and looked, he thought, as little in keeping with the company gathered in the drawing-room of Jeanieville as a Romney would have looked among the bright gilt-framed pictures on the wall.
She spoke to her accompanist, then, clasping her hands behind her, she threw back her head with a funny little gesture and sang.
"Jock the Piper steps ahead,
Taps his fingers on the reed:
His the tune to wake the dead,
Wile the salmon from the Tweed,
Cut the peats and reap the corn,
Kirn the milk and fold the flock—
Never bairn that yet was born
Could be feared for Heather Jock.
Jock the Piper wakes his lay
When the hills are red with dawn!
You can hear him pipe away
After window-blinds are drawn.
In the sleepy summer hours,
When you roam by scaur or rock,
List the tune among the flowers,
'Tis the song of Heather Jock.
Jock the Piper, grave and kind,
Lifts the towsy head that drops!
Never eyes could look behind
When his fingers touch the stops.
Bairns that are too tired to play,
Little hearts that sorrows mock—
'There are blue hills far away,
Come with me,' says Heather Jock.
He will lead them fast and far
Down the hill and o'er the sea,
Through the sunset gates afar
To the Land of Ought-to-be!
Where the treasure ships unload,
Treasures free from bar and lock,
Jock the Piper kens the road,
Up and after Heather Jock."
In his enthusiasm Mr. Stevenson turned to the Misses Simpson and cried:
"What a crystal voice! Who is she?"
The Misses Simpson regarded him for a moment, then Miss Gertrude replied coldly:
"Her name's Elizabeth Seton, and her father's the Thomsons' minister. It's quite a poor church down in the slums, and they haven't even an organ. Pretty? D'you think so? I think there's awfully little in her face. Her voice is nice, of course, but she's got no taste in the choice of songs."
Stewart Stevenson was saved from replying, for the door opened cautiously and Annie the servant put her head in and nodded meaningly in the direction of her mistress, whereupon Mrs. Thomson heaved herself from her inadequate seat and gave a hand—an unnecessary hand—to the spare Miss Hendry.
"Supper at last!" she said. "I'm sure it's time. It niver was my way to keep people sitting wanting food, but there! What can a body say with a grown-up daughter? Eh! I hope Annie's got the tea and coffee real hot, for everything else is cold."
"Never mind, Mrs. Thomson," said Miss Hendry; "it's that warm we'll not quarrel with cold things."
They were making their way to the door, when Mr. Taylor rushed forward and, seizing Mrs. Thomson's arm, drew it through his own, remarking reproachfully, "Oh, Mrs. Thomson, you were niver goin' in without me? Now, Miss Hendry," turning playfully to that austere lady, "don't you be jealous! You know you're an old sweetheart of mine, but I must keep in with Mrs. Thomson to-night—tea and penny-things, eh?" and he nudged Miss Hendry, who only sniffed and said, "You've great spirits for
