"Yes, yes; well, well," he said, peevishly; "I am not a literary hack, to be driven, Maisrie. I must have my own time. I made no promise. There, now, get me my pipe; and bring your violin; and play some of those Scotch airs. Yes, yes; you can get at the feeling of them; and that comes to you through your blood, Maisrie—no matter where you happen to be born."

Twilight had fallen. At the open window, with a long clay pipe, as yet unlit, in his fingers, old George Bethune sate and stared out into the semi-darkness, where all was quiet now, for the carriages from the neighbouring mews had long ago been driven away to dinner-parties and operas and theatres. And in the silence, in the dusky part of the room, there arose a low sound, a tender-breathing sound of most exquisite pathos, that seemed to say, as well as any instrument might say—

"I'm wearin' awa', Jean,

Like snaw-wreaths in thaw, Jean,

I'm wearin' awa',

To the land o' the leal;

There's nae sorrow there, Jean,

There's neither cauld nor care, Jean,

The day's aye fair

In the land o' the leal."

Most tenderly she played, and slowly; and with an absolute simplicity of tone.

"There's Scotch blood in your veins, Maisrie—Scotch blood," he said, approvingly, as the low-vibrating notes ceased.

And then again in the darkness another plaintive wail arose—it was the Flowers o' the Forest this time—and here the old man joined in, singing in a sort of undertone, and with a sufficiently sympathetic voice:

"I've heard the liltin' at our yowe-milkin',

Lasses a-liltin, before the dawn o' day;

But now there's a moanin' on ilka green loanin';

The Flowers o' the Forest are a' wede away.

* * * * *

"We hear nae mair liltin' at our yowe-milkin',

Women and bairns are dowie and wae;

Sighin' and moanin', on ilka green loanin'—

The Flowers o' the Forest are a' wede away."

"Yes, yes," he said, as he rose and came away from the window, "it is the Scotch blood that tingles, it is the Scotch heart that throbs. 'Yestreen, when to the trembling strings, the dance gaed through the lichted ha'——' Who but a Scotchman could have written that? Well, now, Maisrie, we'll have the gas; and you can get out the spirits; and we'll try some of the livelier airs. There's plenty of them, too, as befits a daring and energetic people—a nation of fighters. They were not always bewailing their losses in the field." And therewith the old man, pacing up and down before the empty fire-place, began to sing, with upright head and gallant voice—

"London's bonnie woods and braes,

I maun leave them a', lassie;

Wha can thole when Britain's faes

Would gie Briton law, lassie?

Wha would shun the field o' danger?

Wha to fame would live a stranger?

Now when freedom bids avenge her,

Wha would shun her ca', lassie?"

Maisrie Bethune had laid aside her violin; but she did not light the gas. She stood there, in the semi-darkness, in the middle of the room, timidly regarding her grandfather, and yet apparently afraid to speak. At last she managed to say—