"Hit's a sight different from this country, hain't hit,--all so level and pretty and smoothed-looking. But lonesome." "Oh, you've been there?" "I passed through hit one time on my way to Frankfort." "I don't see anything lonesome about it." "Don't you? Well, any level land looks lonesome to me; hit's more friendly-like to see the hills mustering clost about, and not all drawed off flat and distant, like they keered nothing about nobody. While we wait for Uncle Adam," he suggested, "you might maybe feel to sing a song-ballat; I heared you was a fine singer, and I do love hit." "All right," said Isabel. "What kind of songs do you like best?" "Oh, something that kindly hurts my feelings." Isabel cast about in her mind for something plaintive, hit upon "The Rosary," and sang it in her lovely, clear soprano. "That hain't all?" he asked in surprise, when she stopped. "Yes, that's all." "I allowed hit was just taking a start," he said. "Hit leaves the true lovers parted, don't hit?" "Yes." "Well, I hain't got no use for hit, then," he said, decidedly. "The true lovers oughtn't to be plumb parted, or kilt off, in the end. Don't you know nary 'nother?" This time she tried "Oh, wert thou in the cauld blast," with its incomparable words and music. "That's some better, though hit's too short, too," commented her hearer. "Don't you know no long ones, like we foller singing in this country?" "I don't believe I do," she said. "Suppose you sing one yourself." "No, I hain't no singer." "Yes, I have a feeling that you are. I want to hear you." "Well, anything to pass the time. I might try 'Turkish Lady.'" He began a many-stanzaed ballad, having a robust tune with many queer, long-drawn notes--the story of an English lord who was captured by a Turkish one, and thrown into his deepest dungeon, to be released later by the Turk's lovely daughter, amid mutual vows of love and constancy. After "seven long years have rolled around," the Turkish lady "bundles up her finest clothing," and journeys to England, in search of her lagging lover. Arriving at his castle, and "tingling at the ring," she is informed by "the proud young porter" that his master is just bringing a new bride in. She gives him a message to take to his lord; and when he reports it, with the additional information,-- "There's the fairest lady standing yonder That my two eyes did ever see; She wears gold rings on every finger, And on one finger she has three. There's enough gay gold about her middle To buy half of Northumberlee,"-- the master, recognizing his old true love from the description, under the stress of returning passion breaks his sword in pieces three, packs off the new bride with little ceremony, and celebrates another wedding with the Turkish lady, to the general admiration and glee.