"Would you be willing to sing once for these ladies and gentlemen, Janie?"
"Oh, I could na refuse if it was to gie them pleasure," she replied.
The director in a few words told those present that he had been listening to the child's singing, and that she had consented to sing for them. Some of the faces wore a look of curiosity, some of skepticism, others of genuine interest, but when turning toward them Janie commenced to sing, she held them spellbound, and when she stepped down from the chair they crowded around her and petted and praised her until Sandy was afraid that she would be completely spoiled.
Janie was delighted to have so pleased her audience, but her greatest joy lay in the fact that Sandy had arranged that once a week she should sing with the teacher, and had promised that there should be a piano for her to practice with.
With greatest care Sandy replaced Janie's numerous wraps, much as if she had been a valuable painting, or a choice bit of sculpture, and taking her hand, led her gently down the long stairway to the street. Then, lifting her into the sleigh, and tucking the bear skin about her, he drove briskly over the road toward home, not allowing the horse to slacken pace until he reached his own door.
Margaret McLeod was watching for them, and quickly left her seat at the window to welcome them.
"Weel, Janie, lass, and did the music maester think ye could sing?"
"Oh, yes, yes!" cried Janie. "I'm to study with him, and Sandy, our Sandy has promised to buy me a piano, so I shall know if I sing the right key, and I'm to sing the lang exercises wi' ne'er a song 'til,—weel I dinna when.
"There's' in a' the world nae ane like our Sandy."
"I've often thought the same mysel," said Margaret, with a droll smile at her husband.