Stewart Stevenson looked over his shoulder and saw a girl standing at the piano. She was slight and straight and tall--more than common tall--grey-eyed and golden-haired, and looked, he thought, as little in keeping with the company gathered in the drawing-room of Jeanieville as a Romney would have looked among the bright gilt-framed pictures on the wall. She spoke to her accompanist, then, clasping her hands behind her, she threw back her head with a funny little gesture and sang. "Jock the Piper steps ahead, Taps his fingers on the reed: His the tune to wake the dead, Wile the salmon from the Tweed, Cut the peats and reap the corn, Kirn the milk and fold the flock-- Never bairn that yet was born Could be feared for Heather Jock. Jock the Piper wakes his lay When the hills are red with dawn! You can hear him pipe away After window-blinds are drawn. In the sleepy summer hours, When you roam by scaur or rock, List the tune among the flowers, 'Tis the song of Heather Jock. Jock the Piper, grave and kind, Lifts the towsy head that drops! Never eyes could look behind When his fingers touch the stops. Bairns that are too tired to play, Little hearts that sorrows mock-- 'There are blue hills far away, Come with me,' says Heather Jock. He will lead them fast and far Down the hill and o'er the sea, Through the sunset gates afar To the Land of Ought-to-be! Where the treasure ships unload, Treasures free from bar and lock, Jock the Piper kens the road, Up and after Heather Jock." In his enthusiasm Mr. Stevenson turned to the Misses Simpson and cried: "What a crystal voice! Who is she?" The Misses Simpson regarded him for a moment, then Miss Gertrude replied coldly: "Her name's Elizabeth Seton, and her father's the Thomsons' minister. It's quite a poor church down in the slums, and they haven't even an organ. Pretty? D'you think so? I think there's awfully little _in_ her face. Her voice is nice, of course, but she's got no taste in the choice of songs." Stewart Stevenson was saved from replying, for the door opened cautiously and Annie the servant put her head in and nodded meaningly in the direction of her mistress, whereupon Mrs. Thomson heaved herself from her inadequate seat and gave a hand--an unnecessary hand--to the spare Miss Hendry. "Supper at last!" she said. "I'm sure it's time. It niver was my way to keep people sitting wanting food, but there! What can a body say with a grown-up daughter? Eh! I hope Annie's got the tea and coffee real hot, for everything else is cold." "Never mind, Mrs. Thomson," said Miss Hendry; "it's that warm we'll not quarrel with cold things."