"Wasna that a graun' ane?" said the machinator. "It's nae often ye'll hear the like o' that in Canada. There's jist ae man beside masel' can gie ye that this side o' Inverness—and he's broke i' the win'."
"Thank God!" I ejaculated fervently, not knowing what I said.
But Donald misunderstood me and I had nothing to fear.
"Ye're richt there," he cried exultantly; "it's what I ca' a sacred preevilege to hear the like o' that, maist as sacred as a psalm. Ma faither used to play that verra tune at funerals i' the hielands, and the words they aye sang till't was these:—
"'Take comfort, Christians, when your friends
In Jesus fall asleep,'
an' it used to fair owercome the mourners. If ye were gaun by a hoose i' the hieland glens, and heard thae words and that tune, ye cud mak' sure there was a deid corpse i' the hoose."
"I don't wonder," was my response; but he perceived nothing in the words except reverent assent.
"Ay," went on Donald, "it's a graun' means o' rest to the weary heart. It's fair past everything for puttin' the bairns to sleep. Mony's the time I hae lulled them wi' that same tune when their mither cud dae naethin' wi' them. I dinna mind as I ever heard a bairn cry when I was gien them that tune."
"I quite believe that," I replied, burning to ask him if they ever cried again. But I refrained, and began my retreat towards the door.
"Bide a wee; I maun gie ye 'The MacGregor's Lament.'"