“I can answer for myself, any way,” said Lavender in a tone of voice that Ingram rather liked:  the young man did not always speak with the same quietness, thoughtfulness and modesty.

And how naturally and easily it came about, after all!  They were back again at Borva.  They had driven round and about Lewis, and had finished up with Stornoway; and, now that they had got back to the island in Loch Roag, the quaint little drawing-room had even to Lavender a homely and friendly look.  The big stuffed fishes and the sponge shells were old acquaintances; and he went to hunt up Sheila’s music just as if he had known that dusky corner for years.

“Yes, yes,” called Mackenzie, “it iss the English songs we will try now.”

He had a notion that he was himself rather a good hand at a part song—­just as Sheila had innocently taught him to believe that he was a brilliant whist-player when he had mastered the art of returning his partner’s lead—­but fortunately at this moment he was engaged with a long pipe and a big tumbler of hot whisky and water.  Ingram was similarly employed, lying back in a cane-bottomed easy-chair, and placidly watching the smoke ascending to the roof.  Sometimes he cast an eye to the young folks at the other end of the room.  They formed a pretty sight, he thought.  Lavender was a good-looking fellow enough, and there was something pleasing in the quiet and assiduous fashion in which he waited upon Sheila, and in the almost timid way in which he spoke to her.  Sheila herself sat at the piano, clad all in slate-gray silk, with a narrow band of scarlet velvet round her neck; and it was only by a chance turning of the head that Ingram caught the tender and handsome profile, broken only by the outward sweep of the long eyelashes.

  Love in thine eyes for ever plays,

Sheila sang, with her father keeping time by patting his forefinger on the table.

  He in thy snowy bosom strays,

sang Lavender; and then the two voices joined together: 

  He makes thy rosy lips his care,
  And walks the mazes of thy hair.

Or were there not three voices?  Surely, from the back part of the room, the musicians could hear a wandering bass come in from time to time, especially at such portions as “Ah, he never—­ah, he never touched thy heart!” which old Mackenzie considered very touching.  But there was something quaint and friendly and pleasant in the pathos of those English songs, which made them far more acceptable to him than Sheila’s wild and melancholy legends of the sea.  He sang “Ah, he never, never touched thy heart!” with an outward expression of grief, but with much inward satisfaction.  Was it the quaint phraseology of the old duets that awoke in him some faint ambition after histrionic effect?  At all events, Sheila proceeded to another of his favorites, “All’s Well,” and here, amid the brisk music, the old man had an excellent opportunity of striking in at random—­