"No, Cornelius," I said, "I see in your face you are only surprised. I mean to astonish you still more; you said you had never heard me laugh, I am at least certain that you never heard me sing. Pray open your ears, for I mean to sing you a song."
I sat down in the high ferns, so high that they almost hid me, and I sang him the song of her who loved the lad at the sign of the Blue Bell. He heard me, his chin in his hand, his look on my face; seeing me so fearless, his own uneasiness had vanished.
"Well!" I said.
"Well," he replied, smiling, "it is as wild and sweet a ditty and as pleasant a voice as one need wish to hear on a summer noon. Sing me something else."
"No, it is your turn now."
He lay down at the foot of the willow, and in his clear rich voice, he sang me that pleasant song of Burns—it had always been a favourite of his—of which the burden is 'Bonnie lassie, will ye go to the birks of Aberfeldy?'
I listened, thinking how delightful it was to hear that voice again. When its last tones had died away, I thanked him, and said—
"This is not Aberfeldy, but we have the birks."
"And the bonnie lassie too."
"To be sure; but will you just move a bit?"