Later, when Mrs. McLeod was making preparation for tea, little Janie followed her about, helping to set the table, at the same time telling over and over the fine things which the director had said of her singing, and yet again repeating the delightful fact that there was to be a fine piano “in that verra house.”

“I wondered if the mon was a bit daft,” said Sandy, “when he said tae Janie, ‘Mind ye sing the lessons I gie ye, an naething else.’

“She’s been singing the blithe Scotch ballads since she was a’ most a bairnie, an’ her voice has grown sweeter a’ the time.  I say again, I hope he’s na daft.”

“Sandy, Sandy!” cried Margaret, “ye must na question the great music maester.  I doot not he knows a deal mair aboot music than we do.”

“He says that he will make me sing just wonderful,” said Janie.

“An’ na doot he will,” said Sandy, laying his hand lovingly upon Janie’s head.

* * * * *

It seemed as if the gale increased in force as it blew the dust and twigs against the window, and hurried on with a shrill whistle around the corner.

After the table had been cleared, they took their places before the great fireplace, Sandy, Margaret and Janie making a group in the centre, while at one side sat the great brindle cat, Tam o’ Shanter, and at a respectful distance, on the opposite side of the hearth stone, stood the Scotch Collie, Sir Walter Scott.

Tam, with his forepaws snugly tucked in, and his great yellow eyes blinking at the bright flames, was a picture of contentment.

Sir Walter looked eagerly at Sandy, and longed to go and sit beside him, but that would necessitate rather close proximity to Tam, and Tam usually resented such familiarity, so the dog kept his place, and as he listened to the conversation, seemed to understand what was being said.

“I’ll put fresh logs on the fire,” said Sandy, “tae keep the cauld oot, and I’m hopin’ that there’s nae ane abroad this night.”

At the little depot at the Centre, the station master stood upon the platform looking anxiously up the track, hoping to see the light of an approaching train.

“’Most three hours late,” muttered the man.  “I’d like ter know if it ain’t er comin’ ter-night.”

As he turned to re-enter the depot, a faint whistle made itself heard above the clamor of the wind and turning he saw the headlight of the engine coming around the bend.

“There she is naow,” he remarked, and as the train stopped, the mail bag was quickly thrown out upon the platform and instantly picked up and carried into the depot.

The station agent did not dream that anyone would arrive so late in the village on such a night, so having secured the mail bag, he allowed the train to depart without even a glance at its receding form.

One passenger, however, stepped from the car who evidently was not expecting friends to meet her, as she immediately left the platform and walked briskly up the road as if familiar with the place, and sure of the direction which she must take to reach her destination.