“Is that the woman you stay wi’?” asked Mysie, as Mrs. Ramsay went to the other room.

“Yes, she’s my landlady,” he replied.

“An’ does she bide here too?”

“Well, she’ll stay just as long as you think necessary.  Whenever you think you can get on without her, let me know.  Her daughter is looking after her own house till she returns.  She’s a good, kindly soul, and will do anything to help you.”

“Are you gaun to stay here now, too?”

“Well, that is for you to say, Mysie,” he said seriously.  “Certainly I should like to stay with my wife, for we’ll be married to-morrow.  But if you would rather stay alone, I can easily remain in my digs, and just attend to your lessons In the evening.”

“If you stay here, will she need to stay too?”

“Of course that will all lie with you, Mysie,” he replied.  “Perhaps it might be better for her to stay and help you for a few weeks, and by that time your cold may be better.  But you can think it over to-night and tell me your decision in the morning.”

Mrs. Ramsay’s return cut short any further conversation, and they all sat down to tea, a strange little party.  Mysie did not eat much.  She was too tired, and felt that she would rather go to bed.  She looked ill and very wretched, and at last Peter went out, leaving the women together.

“I’ll be round for you by half-past ten in the morning, Mysie,” he said, as he was going.  “So you must be up, and be as bright as you can.  So take a good long sleep, and you’ll feel ever so much better in the morning.  Mrs. Ramsay will see you all right,” and he was off before Mysie realized he was going.

It was all so strange for Mysie.  She was lost in wonder at it all, as she sat quietly pondering the matter while Mrs. Ramsay washed the dishes and cleared the table.  The noises outside; the glare of the street, lamps, the tier upon tier of houses, piled on top of each other, as she looked from the window at the tall buildings, and the Castle Rock, grim and gray, looking down in silence upon the whole city, but added to Mysie’s confusion of mind.

Shouts from a drunken brawl ascended from the street; the curses of the men, and the screams of women, were plainly audible; while over all a woman’s voice, further down the street, broke into a bonnie old Scots air which Mysie knew, and she could not help feeling that this was the most beautiful thing she had heard so far.

The voice was clear, and to Mysie very sweet, but it was the words that set her heart awandering among her own moors and heather hills.

Ca’ the yowes tae the knowes,
Ca’ them where the heather grows,
Ca’ them where the burnie rows,

              My kind dearie, O!

This was always the song her father sang, if on a Saturday night he had been taking a glass.  It was not that he was given to drinking; but sometimes, on the pay night, he would indulge in a glass with Andrew Marshall or Peter Pegg—­just a round each; sufficient to make them happy and forgetful of their hard lot for a time.  She had seen her father drunk on very few occasions, as he was a very careful man; but sometimes, maybe at New Year’s time, if things were going more than usually well, he might, in company with his two cronies, indulge in an extra glass, and then he was seen at his best.