The voice was clear, and to Mysie very sweet, but it was the words that set her heart awandering among her own moors and heather hills.
Ca' the yowes tae the knowes,
Ca' them where the heather grows,
Ca' them where the burnie rows,
My kind dearie, O!
This was always the song her father sang, if on a Saturday night he had been taking a glass. It was not that he was given to drinking; but sometimes, on the pay night, he would indulge in a glass with Andrew Marshall or Peter Pegg—just a round each; sufficient to make them happy and forgetful of their hard lot for a time. She had seen her father drunk on very few occasions, as he was a very careful man; but sometimes, maybe at New Year's time, if things were going more than usually well, he might, in company with his two cronies, indulge in an extra glass, and then he was seen at his best.
On such occasions Mysie's mother would remonstrate with him, reminding him with wifely wisdom of his family responsibilities; but under all her admonishings Matthew's only reply was:
As I gaed doon the water side,
There I met my bonnie lad,
An' he rowed me sweetly in his plaid,
An' ca'd me his dearie, O!
and as he sang, he would fling his arms around Mysie's mother and turn her round upon the floor, in an awkward dance, to the tune of the song, and finally stopping her flow of words with a hug and a kiss, as he repeated the chorus:
Ca' the yowes tae the knowes,
Ca' them where the heather grows,
Ca' them where the burnie rows,
My kind dearie, O!
So that, when the words of the old song floated up through the noise of the street, Mysie's heart filled, and her eyes brimmed with tears; for she saw again the old home, and all it meant to her.
"There now," said Mrs. Ramsay, noticing her tears, and stroking her hair with a kindly hand. "Mr. Rundell has told me all about it, and I am your friend and his. I deeply sympathize with you, my dear, for I know how much you must feel your position; but Mr. Rundell is a good-hearted young man, and he'll be good to you, I know that. Don't cry, dearie. It is all right."
Thus the words of an old song, sung by a drunken street singer, brought a stronger and deeper stab to the heart of this lonely girl, than to the exile in the back-blocks of Maori-land, or on the edge of the golden West, eating his heart out over a period of years for a glint of the heather hills of home, or the sound of the little brook that had been his lullaby in young days, when all the world was full of dreams and fair romance.