Fell a long silence. At last Faith took the banjo on her knee, and smiling at her husband began to pick the strings gently. She played at random, snatches of melody, broken, indistinct; old airs, odd, half-forgotten. Now and then she sang very softly.
Angus listened in utter content. He seemed to have reached a harbor, a sheltered haven. Toil, struggle, stress seemed far off, faint memories. The spell of the home was upon him in full. Little things—familiar furnishings, the backs of books, pictures—seemed like the smiling faces of old friends. It was, he recognized, the force of contrast with his recent experiences; but it was very pleasant. Softly the banjo talked; and with the haunting murmur of gut and parchment came Faith's voice, low but clear, singing to herself rather than to him.
"'Hame, laddie, hame, an' it's hame ye'll come to me,
Hame to yer hame in yer ain countree;
Whaur th' ash, an' th' oak an' th' bonnie hazel tree
They be all a-growin' green in yer ain countree.'"
For a moment the singing ceased, while the banjo whimpered uncertainly as if seeking a new tune. But it steadied to the same air.
"'If the bairn be a girl she shall wear a gowden ring;
And if it be a boy he shall fight for his king—'"
Something in her voice, a soft, crooning note, caused Angus to stare at the singer. Up from the throat to brow a great wave of color swept. But her voice did not falter:
"'With his tarpaulin hat and his coat of navy blue
He shall pace the quarter-deck as his daddy used to do!'"