Peterkin never loved Eilidh so well as when she sang; but he was sorrowful to-night when he saw that the song brought tears into her eyes. “Eilidh,” he whispered. “Yes, Peterkin, dear.” “Wouldn’t you be liking to kiss Ian?” Eilidh laughed low, a faint flush coming and going upon her face. “For why, boykin?” “Oh, I know that whenever you have tears in your eyes Ian can chase them away. I have seen him kiss you when you are tired.” At this Ian Mor rose and lifted Peterkin in his arms. “Eilidh is thinking of something sad, Peterkin; that is all. See, she is smiling now, and laughing too by the same token.” The boy tossed his curls, and with a roguish smile added: “Ah, that is just because I said she wanted to kiss you.” “You’re much too wise, Peterkin. But there, down with you! Now run to the door, and tell me if it is still raining.” Peterkin never could go straight anywhere, for his progress was ever like that of a kid or lambkin, a series of jumps and little sudden runs. No sooner was he gone, than Ian turned to Eilidh, and took her in his arms. “Sweetheart,” he whispered, “that little burst o’ sunshine is right. A kiss from your lips is the best thing to chase away the tears. But why are you sad, mochree?” “I was thinking of the sorrow of old Lir; and how little it matters whether one live fifty years or five hundred, as these old Dedannans did. Then suddenly the thought flashed across me that some day soon we should lose Peterkin: he too will become a wild swan, and it will be we who shall hear the far-off singing of his laughing childhood.” “Perhaps he will take his childhood with him into manhood, dear. Let him look often into your beautiful eyes, Eilidh, and the little one will learn much without knowing that he is learning. And then, too, to be near you: why, that is to be a child always deep down, and to have sunshine in the heart and mind--for have you forgotten your name, ‘Sunshine’?” As he spoke, Ian Mor leaned and kissed her. Puzzled at the sudden radiant smile on her face, he looked round. There was Peterkin, sitting squatted on the hearth, with an impish smile in his blue eyes. He had crawled behind the hanging curtain at the door, and unseen and unheard gained the fireside. With a joyous laugh he sprang to his feet. “Ah, Ian, you and your rain! Is it not hearing you are? It’s on the window as if the brownies were throwing little wee stones. It was not the rain you were wanting, but only a kiss from Eilidh! Now, Eilidh, tell me true?” “Tell you true, Blumpits. Why----” But here Peterkin, overcome by some sudden memory suggested by the pet name which Eilidh sometimes gave him, went dancing round the room, laughing and chuckling by turns, and once and again clapping his hands in elfin glee. “Eilidh, Eilidh,” he cried, “do tell me again that story of Blumpits and the Bunnywig.” Ian looked puzzled. “What’s a bunnywig, Blumpits?”