After his wife's death, McDermot had returned to his old home in Scotland and had reassumed his duties there as laird of the district, and when, later on, Death struck again, this time leaving his sister Eliza a widow in none too affluent circumstances, he had presented her with his Cornish home, glad to be rid of a place so haunted by poignant memories. In such wise had Mrs. McBain and Sandy come to dwell in Cornwall, and since this, their third summer there, had brought his adored Nan Davenant once more to Mallow Court on a lengthy visit, Sandy's cup of joy was filled to the brim. Mrs. McBain regarded her offspring from much the same standpoint as does a hen the brood of enterprising ducklings which, owing to some stratagem on the part of the powers that be, have hatched out from the eggs upon which she has been conscientiously sitting in the fond belief that they were those of her own species. Sandy was a source of perpetual surprise to his mother, and of not inconsiderable anxiety. How she and the late Duncan McBain of entirely prosaic memory had contrived to produce more or less of a musical genius by way of offspring she had never been able to fathom. Neither parent had ever shown the slightest tendency in that direction, and it is very certain that had such a development manifested itself, they would have speedily set to work to correct it, regarding music--other than hymnal--as a lure of Satan. They had indeed done their best for Sandy himself in that respect, negativing firmly his desire for proper musical tuition, with the result that now, at twenty years of age, he was a musician spoilt through lack of training. Most of his pocket-money in early days had been expended upon surreptitious violin lessons, and he had frequently practised for hours out of doors in the woods, at a distance from the house which secured the parental ear from outrage. Since her husband's death, however, Eliza, chiding herself the while for her weakness, had yielded to a pulsing young enthusiasm that would not be denied, and music of a secular nature was permitted at Trevarthen--unchecked though disapproved. Thus it came about that on the afternoon of Nan's visit Sandy was to be found zealously absorbed in the composition of a triumphal march. The blare of trumpets, the swinging tramp of marching men and the thunderous roll of drums--this last occurring very low down in the bass--were combining to fill the room with joyful noise when there came a light tap at the open French window and Nan herself stood poised on the threshold. "Hullo, Sandy, what's that you're playing?" Sandy sprang off the music stool, beaming with delight, and, seizing her by both arms, drew her rapturously into the room. "You're the very person I want," he exclaimed without further greeting. "It's a march, and I don't know whether I like this modulation into D minor or not. Listen." Nan obeyed, gave her opinion, and finally subsided rather listlessly into a low arm-chair.