slender fingers were wandering over the keys; and there was a
sound--faint and clear and musical--as of the rippling of summer seas.
And sometimes the sounds came nearer; and now he fancied he recognized
some old familiar strain; and he thought of his cousin Janet somehow,
and of summer days down by the blue waters of the Atlantic. A French
song? Surely if this air, that seemed to come nearer and nearer, was
blown from any earthly land, it had come from the valleys of Lochiel and
Ardgour, and from the still shores of Arisaig and Moidart? Oh yes; it
was a very pretty French song that she had chosen to please Mrs. Ross
with.

"A wee bird cam' to our ha' door"--

this was what she sang; and though, to tell the truth, she had not much
of a voice, it was exquisitely trained, and she sang with a tenderness
and expression such as he, at least, had never heard before,--

"He warbled sweet and clearly;
An' aye the o'ercome o' his sang
Was 'Wae's me for Prince Charlie!'
Oh, when I heard the bonnie bonnie bird
The tears cam' drappin' rarely;
I took my bonnet off my head,
For well I lo'ed Prince Charlie."

It could not have entered into his imagination to believe that such
pathos could exist apart from the actual sorrow of the world. The
instrument before her seemed to speak; and the low, joint cry was one of
infinite grief, and longing, and love.