_’The news frae Moidart cam’ yestreen,_ _Will soon gar many ferlie,[#]_ _For ships o’ war hae just come in_ _And landed royal Charlie.’_ [#] ’Ferlie,’ wonder. It was a well-known song, with a resounding chorus: _’Come through the heather, around him gather,_ _Ye’re a’ the welcomer early;_ _Around him cling wi’ a’ your kin,_ _For wha’ll be king but Charlie?’_ Nay, was not this the right popular kind of song—to have two choruses instead of one?— _’Come through the heather, around him gather,_ _Come Ronald, and Donald, come a’thegither_ _And claim your rightfu’ lawfu’ king,_ _For who’ll be king but Charlie?’_ This song gave great satisfaction; for they had all taken part in the chorus; and they were pleased with the melodious result. And then the lasses were at him again: ’Ronald, sing "Doon the burn, Davie lad."’ ’Ronald, will you not give us "Logan Water" now?’ ’Ronald, "Auld Joe Nicholson’s Bonnie Nannie" or "My Peggy is a young thing" whichever you like best yourself.’ ’No, no,’ said the pretty Nelly, ’ask him to sing, "When the kye come hame," and he will be thinking of the black-haired lass he left in the Lothians.’ ’Gae wa’, gae wa’,’ said he, rising and shaking himself free from them. ’I ken what’ll put other things into your heads—or into your heels, rather.’ He picked up his pipes, which had been left in a corner, threw the drones over his shoulder, and marched to the upper end of the barn; then there was a preliminary groan or two, and presently the chanter broke away into a lively reel tune. The effect of this signal, as it might be called, was magical; every one at once divined what was needed; and the next moment they were all helping to get the long table separated into its component parts and carried out into the dark. There was a cross table left at the upper end, by the peat-fire, for the elderly people and the spectators to sit at, if they chose; the younger folk had wooden forms at the lower end; but the truth is that they were so eager not to have any of the inspiriting music thrown away that several sets were immediately formed, and off they went to the brisk strains of _Miss Jenny Gordon’s Favourite_—intertwisting deftly, setting to partners again, fingers and thumbs snapped in the air, every lad amongst them showing off his best steps, and ringing whoops sent up to the rafters as the reel broke off again into a quick strathspey. It was wild and barbaric, no doubt; but there was a kind of rhythmic poetry in it too; Ronald grew prouder and prouder of the fire that he could infuse into this tempestuous and yet methodical crowd; the whoops became yells; and if the red-bearded drover, dancing opposite the slim-figured Nelly, would challenge her to do her best, and could himself perform some remarkable steps and shakes, well, Nelly was not ashamed to raise her gown an inch or two just to show him that he was not dancing with a flat-footed creature, but that she had swift toes and graceful ankles to