Mr. Foreman turned round impatiently, as if to answer, but evidently checking with some difficulty an angry reply, looked again towards the door. "Poor Archibald," said the kindly Mrs. Coulter, "this is not a time for his friends to desert him. Dear me, there is Mr. Ambler persuading Jeanie to sing. Jeanie, my dear, mind what a cold you have got." "Just, 'Auld Robin Gray,' for the benefit of the seniors," said Mr. Ambler, "the first notes will call Mrs. Catherine back again." Jeanie Coulter seated herself at the piano, Walter Foreman took his place behind her. The "seniors" prepared to listen--the younger part of the company to whisper and exchange smiles and glances, the long ballad being too much for their patience. "Do you think it can be young Strathoran who has arrived?" whispered Mrs. Bairnsfather. Mrs. Coulter nodded impatiently, resenting the interruption of Jeanie's song. "Not that new fangled nonsense, Jeanie my dear," said Mrs. Catherine, entering. "You ken the tune Lady Anne wrote it for--a right breath to carry forth the story on--not that--as if sick hearts were like to play with a melody, and did not just seek the needful breath of music to send forth their sorrows withal." "You knew Lady Anne, Mrs. Catherine?" said Jeanie Coulter, playing with the keys, and finding this a proper opportunity for the hesitation and coyness necessary to set off her pretty voice and tasteful singing. "Ay, I knew Lady Anne--you all ken that; sing your ballad, Jeanie Coulter, and do not keep us waiting. Mr. Foreman, I have a word to say to you." The word was said. Mr. Foreman in haste, and not without agitation, left the room, and Mrs. Catherine herself stood near the piano listening to the music. Jeanie Coulter did the ballad--than which it seems to us, there is no history of more perfect beauty and pathos in all the stores of our Scottish tongue, rich though it be in such--full justice. The tremulous sad music stole through the room, arresting even Alice, though she was rising then nearly to the climax of her girlish happiness--"I wish I were dead, but I'm no like to dee." What strange avalanche of trouble could ever bring such words as these from Alice Aytoun's lips? It was impossible. Yet under that same roof was one, whose youthful beginning had been more prosperous than Alice Aytoun's, schooling himself to patience, as again and again the pain of his past transgressions came back upon him like a flood. Agent and factor had both taken their place beside him in the library--the lamp shone upon the somewhat sharp profile of Mr. Foreman, with its deepset acute eyes and deliberative look--upon the healthful, hardy, honest face of Mr. Ferguson, browned by exposure, and instinct with earnest sympathy and kindness--and upon Archibald Sutherland's wan and downcast countenance, with its mark of past sickness, and present melancholy humility; they were discussing his future career.