"Wheesht, mither, wheesht," said Mary: and with a smile in her eyes that made me think of the stars of the morning in a rose tinged sky, she held out both her hands to me. I took them and bent to kiss them, but they were hastily withdrawn, and looking up I saw a flush upon her cheeks, but I did not read resentment in her eyes. "Ha’e ye fetched in the kye, Mary?" asked her mother. "Aye," she replied, "they’re a’ in their stalls." Indeed, one could hear the rattle of chains and the moving of hoofs on the other side of the wall. "Weel, ye’d better start the milkin’. I’ll be oot in a wee to help ye," and without a word more Mary took her departure. My ears were all alert, and, in a moment, I heard her slapping the flank of a cow. Then her stool grated on the cobbles, and I caught the musical tinkle of the milk as it was drawn into the pail; and to my delight Mary began to sing. I listened eagerly. She was singing a love song! The old woman heard her too, for she said: "Dae ye ken ocht aboot kye?" I hastened to tell her that I knew nothing. "Weel," she said, "it’s a queer thing, but ye can aye get mair milk frae a coo if ye sing at the milkin’. If ye sing a nice bricht tune ye’ll get twa or three mair gills than if ye dinna sing ava. Noo, that’s Meg she’s milkin’, and Meg has got near as muckle sense as a human being. On Sabbath, ye ken, it would be a terrible sin to sing a sang to the coo when ye’re milkin’ her, so I’ve got to fa’ back on the psalms. But ye’ve got to be carefu’. For instance, if ye sang the ’Auld Hundred’ to Meg, ye wadna’ get near sae muckle milk, because it’s solemn-like, than ye wad if ye sang her a psalm that runs to the tune o’ ’French.’ Forby, I aince had a servant-lass that sang a paraphrase when she was milkin’ Meg, and the puir cratur’ was that upset that she was milked dry before the luggy was a quarter filled, and when I went masel’ to strip her, she put her fit in the pail--a thing I’ve never kent her dae afore or since." I laughed. "Ay," she continued, "an’ waur than that, the lass poured the luggy that she had drawn frae Meg among the other milk, and the whole lot turned. Sic’ wastry I never kent afore, and ye may be sure that nae paraphrase has ever been sung in my byre since. The guid man was that upset--no’ wi’ the loss o’ the milk--but at the thocht that a paraphrase had been sung in his byre to his coo on the Sabbath day that on the Monday he gi’ed the wench notice." "I should have thought," I said, "that Mary’s voice would persuade the milk from the most reluctant cow." "I dinna’ ken aboot that," she answered: "She’s no as guid a milker as her mother, and though my voice is timmer noo I’ll guarantee to get mair milk at a milkin’ than ever Mary’ll fetch ben the hoose." I would fain have continued the conversation, but the baking was over, and the good woman left to join her daughter. Mary still sang on and I sat in rapture, my heart aglow. *CHAPTER XVIII*