Mrs. MacAllister sniffed audibly.
"I do not think much of your choice," she said tartly.
"You like it, father, do you not?"
"Oh, yes, Jessie! It suits me very well. Sing it."
When it was sung Mrs. MacAllister returned to the attack:
"Why do you not sing something lively instead of those lonesome pieces? It gives me a creepy feeling. Dr. Sinclair is just back from the war. Can you not sing him some fighting song, such as 'Bonnie Dundee' or 'Scots Wha Ha'e wi' Wallace Bled'?"
"Mother, I do not feel like singing fighting songs this evening. We are likely to have fighting enough soon. But if Dr. Sinclair has become so bloodthirsty as a result of his service at the front, I'll try to satisfy him. Must you give vent to your feelings in a war-song, Dr. Sinclair?" A gleam of fun shot through the mock anxiety of her face.
"Not at all, Miss MacAllister. I saw enough of glorious war to do me for a little while. The glory of it is mostly in the songs. There is little glory in the actuality. Anyway, I am enjoying myself too much as it is to take the chance of spoiling it by a change."
Miss MacAllister answered by a warning shake of the head, the severity of which was disarmed by the accompanying smile. But her mother set her lips close together, elevated her nose, and sniffed very audibly.
All unheeding, the young people chose another Scottish song, "Bonnie Charlie's Noo Awa." As the plaintive words and the wailing notes rang out,