and sombre, glowing with that mystic light that shines only in eyes that
have for generations peered into the gloom of Highland glens.

"Ay, it's a bonny spot," she sighed, her rugged face softening as she
gazed. "It's a bonny spot, and it would be a sore thing to part it."

As she stood looking and listening her face changed. Through the hum of
the mill there pierced now and then the notes of a violin.

"Oh, that weary fiddle!" she said with an impatient shake of her head.
But in a few moments the impatience in her face passed into tender pity.
"Ah, well, well," she sighed, "poor man, it is the kind heart he has,
whateffer."

She passed down the bank into the house, then through the large
living-room, speckless in its thrifty order, into a longer room that
joined house to mill. She glanced at the tall clock that stood beside
the door. "Mercy me!" she cried, "it's time my own work was done. But
I'll just step in and see--" She opened the door leading to the mill and
stood silent. A neat little man with cheery, rosy face, clean-shaven,
and with a mass of curly hair tinged with grey hanging about his
forehead, was seated upon a chair tipped back against the wall, playing
a violin with great vigour and unmistakable delight.

"The mill's a-workin', mother," he cried without stopping his flying
fingers, "and I'm keepin' my eye upon her."

She shook her head reproachfully at her husband. "Ay, the mill is
workin' indeed, but it's not of the mill you're thinking."