mists, and pefore you know, you'll pe peing a creat credit to your
cranfather, my boy, Malcolm."

A silence followed, for Malcolm's attempt had not had the result
he anticipated: he had thought only to make his grandfather laugh.
Presently the old man resumed, in the kindest voice:

"And tere's another thing, Malcolm, tat's much wanting to you: you'll
never pe a man--not to speak of a pard like your cranfather--
if you'll not pe learning to play on ta bagpipes."

Malcolm, who had been leaning against the chimney lug while his
grandfather spoke, moved gently round behind his chair, reached
out for the pipes where they lay in a corner at the old man's side,
and catching them up softly, put the mouthpiece to his lips. With
a few vigorous blasts he filled the bag, and out burst the double
droning bass, while the youth's fingers, clutching the chanter
as by the throat, at once compelled its screeches into shape far
better, at least, than his lips had been able to give to the crude
material of Gaelic. He played the only reel he knew, but that with
vigour and effect.

At the first sound of its notes the old man sprung to his feet and
began capering to the reel--partly in delight with the music, but
far more in delight with the musician, while, ever and anon, with
feeble yell, he uttered the unspellable Hoogh of the Highlander, and
jumped, as he thought, high in the air, though his failing limbs,
alas! lifted his feet scarce an inch from the floor.

"Aigh! aigh!" he sighed at length, yielding the contest between