Gie’d me her promise true.”
McIvor waited, anxious to see what would happen when the air jumped inches of scale.
“Gie’d me her promise true!
Which ne’er forgot shall be!
An’ for bonnie Annie Laurie—”
The high notes floated to him, full and clean, and then dropped deliciously to the croon of the world-old love-song.
“I’d lay me down and dee.”
McIvor, leaning on his elbow, revelling in the flooding sounds, frowned. He shook his head. “It’s a pity,” he murmured, and then shouted, “Henry—Henry!” He shouted at the top of his lungs.
Henry Barron, reading inside, dropped his magazine and dashed through the open door. “What in the name of heaven’s the matter? You’re not ill?”
McIvor did not smile. “Ill—no. Who’s that singing?”