By the great fireplace heaped with blazing logs sat old Sandy McLeod energetically tugging at the straps of his great “arctics.”

“It’s a cauld day, lass,” he was saying to little Janie.

“Will it be too cauld to venture out an’ meet the music maester?”

His eyes twinkled, for he well knew that Janie was wild to sing for this man who would say if her voice were indeed worth training.

The teacher of whom Sandy spoke was a man well known in musical circles, whose instruction was eagerly sought, and upon whose judgment one could safely rely.  He had been chosen director of a flourishing musical society in a large town some miles distant from Sandy’s home, and on those days when he was present to direct rehearsals, he also tried the voices of those who asked permission to join the vocal club.  Sandy had one day asked if he might bring little Janie to him, saying quietly,

“It’s worth yer while, mon, ye ne’er heard sae blithe a voice as Janie’s.”

Half doubting, yet amused at the old Scotchman’s manner, he had made an appointment for hearing Janie, and afterward wondered why he had done so, as he felt sure that he was to listen to the vocal efforts of a child whose singing chanced to please an old man whose knowledge of music was probably meagre.

Janie submitted to all the wrappings with which Margaret McLeod saw fit to envelop her, and when in his great fur coat, Sandy stood in the doorway and called to Janie that the sleigh was ready, she hurried toward him, an animated bundle of dry goods.

It was a long, cold ride, but Janie and her enthusiasm were both warm, and when they reached the building and mounted the long flight of stairs to the hall, her cheeks were glowing, and her eyes brilliant with excitement.  She was granted a few moments for a hearing before the hour for the club rehearsal.

The teacher was seated at the piano when they entered, and as he arose to greet them he found it a task to refrain from laughing at the odd little figure wound so snugly in shawls and scarfs.  When, however, her wraps removed, Janie stood before him, a typical little Scotch lass, with bright blue eyes and flaxen braids, he was aware of a charm about the pretty child which compelled him to believe that it was barely possible that she could sing.

“What are some of your songs, child?” he asked kindly.

“I’ll sing, ‘Comin’ thro’ the rye,’ if it please you,” answered Janie, simply.

“Very well,” was the reply, and he played a brilliant little prelude.  The music inspired Janie, and never had she sung as she sang that day.  At the end of the first verse, the man paused, with his hands resting upon the keys, and surveyed the tiny figure as it stood before him, the little chin lifted, and the sweet eyes looking into his so eagerly, as if asking for a word of approval.

“Come nearer,” he said, “and sing another verse.”