"Quoth I, 'My bird, my bonnie, bonnie bird,
Is that a sang ye borrow?
Are these some words ye've learnt by heart,
Or a lilt o' dool an' sorrow?
'Oh, no, no, no,' the wee bird sang;
'I've flown sin' mornin' early;
But sic a day o' wind an' rain--
Oh, wae's me for Prince Charlie!'"

Mrs. Ross glanced archly at him when she discovered what sort of French
song it was that Miss White had chosen; but he paid no heed. His only
thought was, "_If only the mother and Janet could hear this strange
singing!_"

When she had ended, Mrs. Ross came over to him and said, "That is a
great compliment to you."

And he answered, simply, "I have never heard any singing like that."

Then young Mr. Ogilvie--whose existence, by-the-way, he had entirely and
most ungratefully forgotten--came up to the piano, and began to talk in
a very pleasant and amusing fashion to Miss White. She was turning over
the leaves of the book before her, and Macleod grew angry with this idle
interference. Why should this lily-fingered jackanapes, whom a man could
wind round a reel and throw out of window, disturb the rapt devotion of
this beautiful Saint Cecilia?

She struck a firmer chord; the bystanders withdrew a bit; and of a
sudden it seemed to him that all the spirit of all the clans was ringing
in the proud fervor of this fragile girl's voice. Whence had she got