language. A bard, a poet, and not know the classical form of your own
tongue!"

"Is it, ta Welsh Kâllic?" cried John in desperation, for he knew that
the men behind him would carry the story of his ignorance all over
Borvabost.

"The Welsh Gaelic? No. I see you will have to go to school again."

"There iss no more Kâllic in ta schools," said the piper, eagerly
seizing the excuse. "It iss Miss Sheila, she will hef put away all ta
Kâllic from ta schools."

"But you were born half a century before Miss Sheila: how is it you
neglected to learn that form of Gaelic that has been sacred to the use
of the bards and poets since the time of Ossian?"

There were no more quips or cranks for John the Piper during the rest
of the pull home. The wretched man relapsed into a moody silence
and worked mechanically at his oar, brooding over this mysterious
language of which he had not even heard. As for Lavender, he turned to
Mackenzie and begged to know what he thought of affairs in France.

And so they sailed back to Borvabost over the smooth water that lay
like a lake of gold. Was it not a strange sight to see the Atlantic
one vast and smooth yellow plain under the great glow of saffron that
spread across the regions of the sunset? It was a world of light,
unbroken but by the presence of a heavy coaster that had anchored
in the bay, and that sent a long line of trembling black down on the
perfect mirror of the sea. As they got near the shore the portions