Again the paddles fell, and her canoe slid away into the ever-deepening night. Of a sudden her trance of thought was broken, and over the waters from the twins came snatches of song, bits of Scotch ballads, familiar in this household. At last she smiled and murmured, “The scamps!” They were caroling the song with which they had been fond of mocking her in her girlhood.
“There are seven fair flowers in yon green wood,
In a bush in the woods o’ Lyndsaye;
There are seven braw flowers an’ ae bonny bud,
Oh! the bonniest flower in Lyndsaye.
An’ weel love I the bonny, bonny rose—
The bonny, bonny Rose-a-Lyndsaye;
An’ I’ll big my bower o’ the forest boughs,
An’ I’ll dee in the green woods o’ Lyndsaye.
“Her face is like the evenin’ lake,