“Composed on the spur of the moment?” said Mrs. Stuart.
“That,” he replied, “I cannot answer. I sit down, I strike a note or chord, there is an answer from here"—he placed his hand upon his heart; “then I leave the heart and the instrument to do everything. I but listen, though, listening, I sometimes weep.”
“And this is Davie Drake? Lay aft, Davie.”
The big brown-faced, fair-haired lad came towards him, blushing through his brownness—blushing, but smiling.
“How are you, Davie?”
“Middlin’, thanks.”
“And you must come and see me some evening, when Barclay and I are settled in the old windmill.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And what are you going to be?”