An old story, doubtless, and often told; but its effect on this girl sitting beside him was strange.  Her clasped hands trembled; her eyes were glazed and fascinated as if by some spell.  Mrs. Ross, noticing this extreme tension of feeling, and fearing it, hastily rose.

“Come, Gertrude,” she said, taking the girl by the hand, “we shall be frightened to death by these stories.  Come and sing us a song—­a French song, all about tears, and fountains, and bits of ribbon—­or we shall be seeing the ghosts of murdered Highlanders coming in here in the daytime.”

Macleod, not knowing what he had done, but conscious that something had occurred, followed then into the drawing-room, and retired to a sofa, while Miss White sat down to the open piano.  He hoped he had not offended her.  He would not frighten her again with any ghastly stories from the wild northern seas.

And what was this French song that she was about to sing?  The pale, slender fingers were wandering over the keys; and there was a sound—­faint and clear and musical—­as of the rippling of summer seas.  And sometimes the sounds came nearer; and now he fancied he recognized some old familiar strain; and he thought of his cousin Janet somehow, and of summer days down by the blue waters of the Atlantic.  A French song?  Surely if this air, that seemed to come nearer and nearer, was blown from any earthly land, it had come from the valleys of Lochiel and Ardgour, and from the still shores of Arisaig and Moidart?  Oh yes; it was a very pretty French song that she had chosen to please Mrs. Ross with.

    “A wee bird cam’ to our ha’ door”—­

this was what she sang; and though, to tell the truth, she had not much of a voice, it was exquisitely trained, and she sang with a tenderness and expression such as he, at least, had never heard before,—­

      “He warbled sweet and clearly;
    An’ aye the o’ercome o’ his sang
      Was ‘Wae’s me for Prince Charlie!’
    Oh, when I heard the bonnie bonnie bird
      The tears cam’ drappin’ rarely;
    I took my bonnet off my head,
      For well I lo’ed Prince Charlie.”

It could not have entered into his imagination to believe that such pathos could exist apart from the actual sorrow of the world.  The instrument before her seemed to speak; and the low, joint cry was one of infinite grief, and longing, and love.

    “Quoth I, ’My bird, my bonnie, bonnie bird,
      Is that a sang ye borrow? 
    Are these some words ye’ve learnt by heart,
      Or a lilt o’ dool an’ sorrow? 
    ‘Oh, no, no, no,’ the wee bird sang;
      ‘I’ve flown sin’ mornin’ early;
    But sic a day o’ wind an’ rain—­
      Oh, wae’s me for Prince Charlie!’”

Mrs. Ross glanced archly at him when she discovered what sort of French song it was that Miss White had chosen; but he paid no heed.  His only thought was, “If only the mother and Janet could hear this strange singing!”