“If you are thinking of Loring,” said her father, “he is busy all day and he can go to the mess in the evening.” “The mess!” exclaimed Jean scornfully. “Yes, fine place for a gentleman, where the men chew tobacco and drink whisky all the evening, and tell stories as long as they are broad!” “All terribly offensive no doubt to a sensitive soul like your Mr. Loring,” answered Mr. Cameron. “Perhaps,” he added with fine sarcasm, “you would like to have him take his meals with us.” “Yes, I would like to ask him here sometime. It is good in you to think of it,” replied his daughter calmly. “It cannot be done, Jean. It cannot be done,” Mr. Cameron said with decision. “Discrimination among the men breeds discontent. I think that we have done full enough for Loring as it is.” “Do you?” Jean responded, with the audacity of a hot temper. “Well, I do not; but then it was my life that he saved, and perhaps that makes me see the thing differently. I am thinking that when a man saves your life you cannot get rid of the obligation by throwing him a job, as you might toss a bone to a dog. I am thinking that he has some claim on the life that he has given back, and that the other person should spend a little of it in doing something for him.” “And, pray, what has his being a gentleman to do with all this?” asked Mr. Cameron, whose wrath took the form of sarcasm. “Suppose that Colson or Lynn had saved your life, would you have wished to have him at the house?” “Neither of them would have wished to come.” “That is not honest, Jean. You know that they would; but you would never ask them, except to one of your camp dances. You would not if they had saved your life twenty times.” “I should try to do something for them, something that they would like; but if people are not of your kind there is no use in inviting them. There is no kindness in it in the end.” “Perhaps,” said her father, “there would prove to be no kindness in the end in what you wish to do for Loring.” “Very well. There is no use in arguing with a Scotchman; but I warn you that I shall make it up to him in friendliness. The other men can scarcely object to that.” With these words Jean rose from the steps and, passing through the door, entered the little living-room where she picked up a guitar from the window-seat, and to its accompaniment began to sing in a low voice. What was the song she chose? Why, it was “Jock o’ Hazeldean.” If ever a song expressed flat mutiny it is that one, and it lost nothing in expression from Jean Cameron’s rendering, from the beginning where the heroine refuses to be commanded or cajoled, to the last line where “She’s o’er the border and awa’ wi’ Jock o’ Hazeldean.” Mr. Cameron was justified in being angry; but who could resist a voice like Jean Cameron’s? Evidently not Jean’s father, for when the girl came out again and smiling laid her hand upon his shoulder, Mr. Cameron relaxed the grimness of his expression.