However, on this occasion he had not to listen long; for presently Mrs. Menzies returned, smiling, good-natured, radiant in further finery; and then they all had supper together; and she did her best to console her cousin for being cooped up in the great city on the eve of the Twelfth. And Ronald was very grateful to her; and perhaps, in his eager desire to keep up this flow of high spirits, and to forget what was happening at Inver-Mudal and about to happen, he may have drunk a little too much; at all events, when Laidlaw and Jaap and the skipper came in they found him in a very merry mood, and Kate Menzies equally hilarious and happy. Songs?—he was going to no Harmony Club that night, he declared—he would sing them as many songs as ever they liked—but he was not going to forsake his cousin. Nor were the others the least unwilling to remain where they were; for here they were in privacy, and the singing was better, and the liquor unexceptionable. The blue smoke rose quietly in the air; the fumes of Long John warmed blood and brain; and then from time to time they heard of the brave, or beautiful, or heart-broken maidens of Scotch song—Maggie Lauder, or Nelly Munro, or Barbara Allan, as the chance might be—and music and good fellowship and whisky all combined to throw a romantic halo round these simple heroines. ’But sing us one o’ your own, Ronald, my lad—there’s none better, and that’s what I say!’ cried the widow; and as she happened to be passing his chair at the time—going to the sideboard for some more lemons, she slapped him on the shoulder by way of encouragement. ’One o’ my own?’ said he. ’But which—which—lass? Oh, well, here’s one.’ He lay back in his chair, and quite at haphazard and carelessly and jovially began to sing—in that clearly penetrating voice that neither tobacco smoke nor whisky seemed to affect— _Roses white, roses red,_ _Roses in the lane,_ _Tell me, roses red and white,_ _Where is——_ And then suddenly something seemed to grip his heart. But the stumble was only for the fiftieth part of a second. He continued: _Where is Jeannie gane?_ And so he finished the careless little verses. Nevertheless, Kate Menzies, returning to her seat, had noticed that quick, instinctive pulling of himself up. ’And who’s Jeannie when she’s at home?’ she asked saucily. ’Jeannie?’ he said, with apparent indifference. ’Jeannie? There’s plenty o’ that name about.’ ’Ay; and how many o’ them are at Inver-Mudal?’ she asked, regarding him shrewdly, and with an air which he resented.