ng--_je t'aime! je t'aime!_
Olivia, I love you!"

She plucked her hand away and threw her shoulders back, haughty, yet
trembling and on the brink of tears.

"It is not kind--it is not kind," she stammered, almost sobbing. "The
lady that is in France."

"_Petite imbecile!_" he cried, "there is no lady in France worthy to
hold thy scarf; 'twas thyself, _mignonne_, I spoke of all the time; only
the more I love the less I can express."

He drew her to him, crushing the jasmine till it breathed in a fragrant
dissolution, bruising her breast with the topaz.

CHAPTER XXXVII -- THE FUTILE FLAGEOLET

But Simon MacTaggart did not pipe wholly in vain. If Olivia
was unresponsive, there was one at least in Doom who was his,
whole-heartedly, and Mungo, when the flageolet made its vain appeal,
felt a personal injury that the girl should subject his esteemed
impersonation of all the manly graces and virtues--so to call them--to
the insult of indifference.

As the melodies succeeded each other without a sign of response from
overhead, he groaned, and swore with vexation and anger.

"Ye can be bummin' awa' wi' your chanter," he said as he stood listening
in the kitchen. "Her leddyship wodnae hae ye playin' there lang your
lane a saison syne, but thae days is done wi'; there's nae lugs for a
tirlin' at the winnock whaur there's nae love--at least wi' Mistress
Leevie."

Annapla heard the music with a superstitious terror; her eyes threatened
to leap out of her head, and she clutched the arm of her adorer.

"Gae 'wa!" he told her, shaking her off with a contempt for her fears.
"Are ye still i' the daft Hielan' notion that it's a ghaist that's
playin' there? That was a story he made up himsel', and the need for
't's done. There's naethin' waur nor Sim MacTaggart oot there i' the
gairden, wastin' his wund on a wumman that's owre muckle ta'en up i' the
noo wi' the whillywhaes o' a French sneckdrawer that haesnae the smeddum
to gi'e her a toozlin' at the 'oor she needs it maist. Ay, ay! caw awa'
wi' yer chanter, Sim, ye'll play hooly and fairly ere ever ye play 't i'
the lug o' Leevie Lamond, and her heid against your shoulder again."

When it seemed at last the player's patience was at an end, the little
servitor took a lamp and went to the door. He drew the bolts softly,
prepared to make a cautious emergence, with a recollection of his warm
reception before. He was to have a great surprise, for there stood Simon
Mac-Taggar