l.'

'How are we to light the fire?' whispered Leucha. 'Do you know how
it's done, Dorothy?'

'Not I. Who 's that singing?'

There was a wonderfully sweet contralto voice sounding from the cosy
depths of the Summer Parlour. The words the girl sang were as follows:

'The great Ardshiel, he gaed before,
He gart the cannons and guns to roar.

'Whisper now, lassies. Do you not know that "the oak shall go over the
myrtle yet"? We will settle some of the poor English girls yet. All
the same, I like the really nice English girls _ever_ so well. They
are so bonnie and so gentle, like my own sweet sister Jasmine. Where
could you see her like anywhere? And there is my own kinsman, the Duke
of Ardshiel! Ah! but I love him well!'

The voice was undoubtedly the voice of Hollyhock, who, without rhyme or
reason, had lit a great fire in the old grate, and was comfortably
established there, with her four sisters and a number of Scots and
English girls scattered round.

These young people were seated round the roaring fire, and Holly, with
her black locks and great glowing black eyes, was the centre of an
animated group. She was about to expand her views on the nice and
not-nice English girls, when in rushed Leucha and her friends.

'You clear out of this,' she said.

'Clear?' said Hollyhock. 'What is clear?'

'There's the door,' said Leucha. 'Go!'

'Not I,' said Holly. 'I find this little chair very comfortable.'

She established herself with much grace and dignity, and the others
clustered round her.

'You have got to go,' said Leucha, who was now in a towering passion.
'We have got Mrs Macintyre's permission to consecrate the Summer
Parlour to the English girls until Saturday.'

'That seems a pity,' said Holly, 'for, you see, we _must_ put out the
fire. We built it, we lassies of Scotland, and we do not leave it
except to those English girls who are on our side. I rather think you
are up to a conspiracy, and you sha'n't hatch your plot by _our_
fire.--Come, girls, she wants the Parlour and the fire, but she does
not want us. So, quick is the word. Stir yourself, Delphy; stir
yourself, Augusta; stir yourselves, all the rest. It is mighty damp
outside, so the faggots can cool themselves there. My word! I do not
think much of _some_ English maids. They have no manners at all. And
I telling such a fine tale about Ardshiel and his bonnie men. Well,
the Camerons are down now, but they will soo