And then again in the darkness another plaintive wail arose—it was the Flowers o’ the Forest this time—and here the old man joined in, singing in a sort of undertone, and with a sufficiently sympathetic voice: "I’ve heard the liltin’ at our yowe-milkin’, Lasses a-liltin, before the dawn o’ day; But now there’s a moanin’ on ilka green loanin’; The Flowers o’ the Forest are a’ wede away. * * * * * "We hear nae mair liltin’ at our yowe-milkin’, Women and bairns are dowie and wae; Sighin’ and moanin’, on ilka green loanin’— The Flowers o’ the Forest are a’ wede away." "Yes, yes," he said, as he rose and came away from the window, "it is the Scotch blood that tingles, it is the Scotch heart that throbs. ’Yestreen, when to the trembling strings, the dance gaed through the lichted ha’——’ Who but a Scotchman could have written that? Well, now, Maisrie, we’ll have the gas; and you can get out the spirits; and we’ll try some of the livelier airs. There’s plenty of them, too, as befits a daring and energetic people—a nation of fighters. They were not always bewailing their losses in the field." And therewith the old man, pacing up and down before the empty fire-place, began to sing, with upright head and gallant voice— "London’s bonnie woods and braes, I maun leave them a’, lassie; Wha can thole when Britain’s faes Would gie Briton law, lassie? Wha would shun the field o’ danger? Wha to fame would live a stranger? Now when freedom bids avenge her, Wha would shun her ca’, lassie?" Maisrie Bethune had laid aside her violin; but she did not light the gas. She stood there, in the semi-darkness, in the middle of the room, timidly regarding her grandfather, and yet apparently afraid to speak. At last she managed to say— "Grandfather—you will not be angry—?" "What’s this, now?" he said, wheeling round and staring at her, for the peculiarity of her tone had caught his ear. "Grandfather," she continued, in almost piteous embarrassment. "I—I wish to say something to you—I have been thinking about it for a long while back—and yet afraid you mightn’t understand—you might be angry—" "Well, well, what is it?" he said, impatiently. "What are you dissatisfied with? I don’t see that you’ve much to complain of, or I either. We don’t live a life of grandeur; nor is there much excitement about it; but it is fairly comfortable. I consider we are very well off." "We are too well off, grandfather," she said, sadly. He started at this, and stared at her again. "What do you mean?" "Grandfather," she said, in the same pathetic voice, "don’t you see that I am no longer a child? I am a woman. And I am doing nothing. Why did you give me so careful an education if I am not to use it? I wish to earn something—I—I wish to keep you and me, grandfather—" The stammering sentences ceased: he replied slowly, and perhaps a trifle coldly.