"Fill up, Blachland," said his host, pushing over a large bladder tobacco-pouch. "Where's my pipe? No--not that one. The deep one with the wire cover." "I've got it, father," cried Lyn. "I'm filling it for you." "Thanks, darling," as she brought it over. "You know, Blachland, my after-supper pipe never tastes so good unless this little girlie fills it for me. She's done so ever since she was a wee kiddie so high." Blachland smiled to himself, rather sadly, as he watched the long tapering fingers pressing down the tobacco into the bowl, and wondered how his friend would feel when the time came--and come it must, indeed any day might bring it--when he would have no one to render this and a hundred and one other little services of love, such as he had noticed during his stay--when Bayfield should be left lonely, and the bright and sweet and sunny presence which irradiated this simple home should be transferred to another. Somehow the thought was distasteful to him, vaguely, indefinably so, but still distasteful. Meanwhile Lyn had opened the piano, and after an appeal to them for any preference in the way of songs, which was met by an assurance that any and all were equally acceptable, had begun singing. The two men sat back in their armchairs at the further end of the room, listening in supremest content. From the first Blachland had excused himself from attending her at the piano. He wanted thoroughly to enjoy her performance, which he could not do standing fussing around, and Lyn had appreciated the real and practical compliment thus conveyed. And he did enjoy it. Song after song she sang, now grave and pathetic, now gay and arch, and it seemed to him he could sit there listening for ever. Hers was no concert-hall voice, but it was very sweet and true, and was entirely free from mannerism. She did not think it necessary to roll her r's in the approved professional style whenever that consonant came at the end of a word, or to pronounce "love" exactly according to its phonetic spelling, but every word was enunciated distinctly, and therefore as intelligible as though she had been talking. In short, her singing was utterly without self-consciousness or affectation, and therein lay no small a proportion of its charm. "There! That's enough for one night!" she cried at last, closing the instrument. "Not for us," declared Blachland. "But you mustn't overstrain your voice. Really to me this has been an immense treat." "I'm so glad," said the girl brightly. "I suppose, though, you don't hear much music up-country. Don't you miss it a great deal?"