That same night, when the girls were going to bed--whether the inspiration still lingered, in spite of soapsuds, about the red frock, and was by it imparted to its owner, or whether it was merely the prompting of that demon of self-assertion that had been tormenting her of late--Baubie Wishart volunteered a song, and, heedless of consequences, struck up one of the two which formed her stock in trade. The unfamiliar sounds had not long disturbed the quiet of the house when the matron and Kate, open-eyed with wonder, hastened up to know what was the meaning of this departure from the regular order of things. Baubie heard their approach, and only sang the louder. She had a good and by no means unmusical voice, which the rest had rather improved; and by the time the authorities arrived on the scene there was an audience gathered round the daring Baubie, who, with shoes and stockings off and the Rob Roy tartan half unfastened, was standing by her bed, singing at the pitch of her voice. The words could be heard down the stairs: Hark! I hear the bugles sounding: 'tis the signal for the fight. Now, may God protect us, mother, as He ever does the right. "Baubie Wishart," cried the astonished mistress, "what do you mean?" The singer was just at the close of a verse: Hear the battle-cry of Freedom! how it swells upon the air! Yes, we'll rally round the standard or we'll perish nobly there. She finished it off deliberately, and turned her bright eyes and flushed face toward the speaker. "Who gave you leave, Baubie Wishart," went on the angry matron, "to make yon noise? You ought to think shame of such conduct, singing your good-for-nothing street-songs like a tinkler. One would think ye would feel glad never to hear of such things again. Let me have no more of this, do ye hear? I just wonder what Miss Mackenzie would say to ye!--Kate, stop here till they are all bedded and turn off yon gas."