"Jim," said Myra, "do you remember a little tune I often hummed down in Cornwall; and, when you asked me what it was, I said you should hear the words some day?" Jim looked puzzled. "Really dear--you hummed so many little tunes----" "Oh, I know," said Myra; "and I have not much ear. But this was very special. I want to sing it to you now. Listen!" And looking up at him, her soft eyes full of love, Myra sang, with slight alterations of her own, the last verse of the old Scotch ballad, "Huntingtower." "Blair in Athol's mine, Jamie, Fair Dunkeld is mine, laddie; Saint Johnstown's bower, And Huntingtower, And all that's mine, is thine, laddie." "Very pretty," said Jim, "but you've mixed it, my dear. Jamie bestowed all his possessions on the lassie. You sang it the wrong way round." "No, no," cried Myra, eagerly. "There _is_ no wrong way round. Providing they both love, it does not really matter which gives. The one who happens to possess, bestows. If you were a cowboy, Jim, and you loved a woman with lands and houses, in taking her, you would take all that was hers." "I guess I'd take her out to my ranch and teach her to milk cows," laughed Jim Airth. Then turning about under the tree and looking in all directions: "But seriously, Myra, where is Lady Ingleby? She should keep her appointments. We cannot waste our whole afternoon waiting here. I want my girl; and I want her in her own little home, alone. Cannot we find Lady Ingleby?" Then Myra rose, radiant, and came and stood before him. The sunbeams shone through the beech leaves and danced in her grey eyes. She had never looked more perfect in her sweet loveliness. The man took it all in, and the glory of possession lighted his handsome face. She came and stood before him, laying her hands upon his breast. He wrapped his arms lightly about her. He saw she had something to say; and he waited. "Jim," said Myra, "Jim, dearest. There is just one name I want to bear, more than any other. There is just one thing I long to be. Then I shall be content. I want to have the right to be called 'Mrs. Jim Airth.' I want more than all else beside, to be your wife. But--until I am that; and may it be very soon! until you make me 'Mrs. Jim Airth'--dearest--_I_--am Lady Ingleby." CHAPTER XVI UNDER THE BEECHES AT SHENSTONE Jim Airth's arms fell slowly to his sides. He still looked into those happy, loving eyes, but the joy in his own died out, leaving them merely cold blue steel. His face slowly whitened, hardened, froze into lines of silent misery. Then he moved back a step, and Myra's hands fell from him. "_You_--'Lady Ingleby'?" he said. Myra gazed at him, in unspeakable dismay. "Jim!" she cried, "Jim, dearest! Why should you mind it so much?" She moved forward, and tried to take his hand. "Don't touch me!" he said, sharply. Then: "_You_, Myra? You! Lord Ingleby's widow?"