would carry news of it to Gilbert," and she smiled. "It's about the
Elliotts," she continued, "and I think there's few bonnier bits in the
book-poets, though Dand has never got printed yet."

And she began, in the low, clear tones of her half voice, now sinking
almost to a whisper, now rising to a particular note which was her best,
and which Archie learned to wait for with growing emotion:-


"O they rade in the rain, in the days that are gane,
In the rain and the wind and the lave,
They shoutit in the ha' and they routit on the hill,
But they're a' quaitit noo in the grave.
Auld, auld Elliotts, clay-cauld Elliotts, dour, bauld Elliotte of auld!"


All the time she sang she looked steadfastly before her, her knees
straight, her hands upon her knee, her head cast back and up. The
expression was admirable throughout, for had she not learned it from the
lips and under the criticism of the author? When it was done, she
turned upon Archie a face softly bright, and eyes gently suffused and
shining in the twilight, and his heart rose and went out to her with
boundless pity and sympathy. His question was answered. She was a
human being tuned to a sense of the tragedy of life; there were pathos
and music and a great heart in the girl.

He arose instinctively, she also; for she saw she had gained a point,
and scored the impression deeper, and she had wit enough left to flee
upon a victory. They were but commonplaces that remained to be
exchanged, but the low, moved voices in which they passed made them