But before he could reach the bell a servant entered, bringing in the tea paraphernalia. Sandy turned abruptly to the piano, thrumming out a few desultory minor chords which probably gave his perturbed young soul a certain amount of relief, while Nan sat gazing with a half-maternal, half-humorous tenderness at the head of flaming red hair which had earned him his sobriquet. "Weel, so ye've come to see me at last--or is it Sandy that you're calling on?" The door had opened to admit Mrs. McBain--a tall, gaunt woman with iron-grey hair and shrewd, observant eyes that glinted with the grey flash of steel. Nan jumped up at her entrance. "Oh, Aunt Eliza? How are you? I should have been over to see you before, but there always seems to be something or other going on at Mallow." "I don't doubt it--in yon house of Belial," retorted Mrs. McBain, presenting a chaste cheek to Nan's salute. The young red lips pressed against the hard-featured face curved into a smile. Nan was no whit in awe of her aunt's bitter tongue, and it was probably for this very reason that Mrs. McBain could not help liking her. Most sharp-spoken people appreciate someone who is not afraid to stand up to them, and Nan and Mrs. McBain had crossed swords in many a wordy battle. "Are you applying the name of Belial to poor old Barry?" enquired Sandy with interest. "I don't consider he's half earned it." "Barry Seymour's a puir weak fule and canna rule his ain hoose," came the curt answer. Mrs. McBain habitually spoke as excellent English as only a Scotswoman can, but it pleased her on occasion to assume the Doric--much as a duchess may her tiara. "Barry's a dear," protested Nan, "and he doesn't need to play at being master in his own house." "I'm willing to believe you. That red-headed body is mistress and master too." Sandy grinned. "I consider that remark eminently personal. The hue of one's hair is a misfortune, not a fault," he submitted teasingly. "In Kitty you must at least allow that the red takes a more pleasing form than it does with me." Mrs. McBain sniffed. "You'll be tellin' me next that her hair's the colour God made it," she observed indignantly. Sandy and Nan broke into laughter. "Well, mine is, anyway," said the former. "It would never have been this colour if I'd had a say in the matter." Eliza surveyed her offspring with disfavour. "It's an ill thing, Sandy McBain, to question the ways of the Almighty who made you." "I don't. It's you who seem far more disposed to disparage the completed article than I." He beamed at her seraphically. Eliza's thin lips relaxed into an unwilling smile. Sandy was as equally the joy of her heart as he was the flagellation of her conscience. "Well, I'll own you're the first of the McBains to go daft over music." She handed a cup of tea to Nan as she spoke. Then asked; "And how's your uncle, St. John?" "He's at Mallow, too. We all are--Penelope and Uncle David, and Ralph Fenton--"