Old Bess took the shrinking girl by the hand, and leading her forward, with a deep courtesy announced, “Hieland Mary will favor us wi’ a song,” then she left Mary standing in the center of the room suffering agonies of dread as she raised her frightened eyes to the group of laughing, good-natured, gaping faces about her. “I canna’ sing, I canna’ sing, Souter,” she faltered, turning to him beseechingly. “Yes, ye can, dearie, just a—a verse, there’s a girlie,” he answered encouragingly. “Come and stand beside me, if that’s any inspiration to ye,” he added, smiling good-humoredly. She ran to his side, and clutching him by the arm, tried to muster up her courage, for the good-natured audience were clamorously demanding a song. With a frightened little gasp she began to sing the first thing that came to her mind. “Oh, where, and oh, where is my Highland laddie gone?” she faltered out. A little titter passed through the crowd, for they knew that “Rab Burns was nae longer sweet on Mary Campbell,” as they told each other in loud whispers. At the cruel sound Mary, whose lips had trembled ominously as she thought of her recreant lover, with an indignant look at the thoughtless ones, burst into a flood of tears. Quickly Souter led her sobbing to a seat, while the others anxiously crowded round, conscience-stricken at their thoughtless levity. “What’s happent? what’s happent? Has she fainted?” they asked in helpless confusion, gazing from one to the other. “She’s only a wee bittie tired,” answered old Souter, tenderly smoothing the hair of the sorrowing lass. “Let her alone an’ she’ll be all right. Donald,” he called, “start your fiddle; we’re gang to hae anither dance.” The blind old patriarch smiled serenely, and raising his fiddle to his chin began to play, and soon the mirth and fun grew fast and furious as the dancers reeled and set, and crosst and cleekit. While old Donald was playing, and the dance was well started, Souter quietly led Mary out in the open air, and sitting down on the doorstep, he drew her gently beside him. “Noo, Mary, what is the matter?” he inquired kindly. “Winna ye tell old Souter Johnny your trouble?” “Ye ken why I am unhappy, Souter Johnny,” answered Mary apathetically. He sighed and remained silent. “Have ye an’ Robert quarreled?” he asked presently. “No,” she answered sadly. “Weel, come tell old Souter; it may ease your mind, lassie,” and he drew her plaid about her shoulders, for the night air was keen. “Well, ye ken, Souter,” she faltered, a pitiful little break in her voice, “Robbie an’ I were to be married after the plantin’ was o’er, and ’tis noo harvest time, but ne’er a word has he spoke of our marriage since that day. He is so changed, Souter, I—I canna understand him at all,” and she leaned wearily against his shoulder like a tired child. “That Armour lass is at the bottom of it all, I ken,” thought Souter angrily, drawing her close to him.