“Don’t you sing, Miss Lucy?” asked Harry, when her father laid down the instrument.
“No,” answered the girl, smiling. “I wish I did. Father is very fond of singing.”
“Aye, am I; Lucy’s mother sang, but the gift has not descended to her.”
“Harry is a professional singer,” said Jack. “He sings in public.”
“Please sing something, then,” pleaded Lucy.
“If you really wish it,” answered Harry.
“I shall be glad to hear you, young sir,” said the shepherd.
Harry hesitated no longer, but sang at once, choosing such Scotch melodies as he knew in preference. The shepherd’s eyes glistened, and he was evidently much moved.
“It calls back my early days, when as a lad I trod the heath in Scotland,” he said. “You are a fine singer. I don’t mind when I have enjoyed an evening as much.”
“I am very glad, sir, if I have been able in this way to repay your kindness,” said Harry.