"It's queer talk to make to a bairn," he said one day, smiling grimly, as he listened to her.
"He understands it, I'm sure," she said, smiling too.
Cameron sang himself sometimes when he was at the far end of the clearing. It was always the same thing—the gathering song of the Clan of Donald the Black. While he was ploughing one morning, Mary first heard him singing:
Pibroch o' Donuil Dhu,
Pibroch o' Donuil,
Wake thy wild voice anew,
Summon Clan Conuil.
The words of the grand old slogan echoed among the hills.
When next she heard it, Mary lifted Davey out of his cradle and ran to the door with him, crying happily:
"Listen, now, Davey dear, to thy father singing!"
Cameron had interrupted himself to call to the mare as she turned a furrow: "Whoa, Lass! Whoa now!"
He had gone on with his song as he bent the share to the slope of the hill again.
A hidden root checked his progress; but when he had got it out of the way, and the plough settled again, he swung down hill, giving his voice to the wind heartily: