cause there are some unmistakable symptoms that winter is about over,
and that snow-shoe and dog-sleigh travelling will soon be impossible."

That Lumley was right, the change of weather during the next few days
clearly proved, for a thaw set in with steady power. The sun became at
last warm enough to melt ice and snow visibly. We no longer listened
with interest to the sounds of dropping water from eaves and trees, for
these had become once more familiar, and soon our ears were greeted with
the gurgling of rills away in mysterious depths beneath the snow. The
gurgling ere long gave place to gushing, and it seemed as if all nature
were dissolving into liquid.

While this pleasant change was going on we awoke with song and laugh and
story the echoes of Bachelors' Hall--at no time very restful echoes,
save perhaps in the dead hours of early morning; and even then they were
more or less disturbed by snoring. For our sociable Highlander, besides
having roused our spirits by his mere presence to the effervescing
point, was himself much elated by the mighty change from prolonged
solitude to joyous companionship.

"My spirit feels inclined," he remarked one day, "to jump clean out of
my body."

"You'd better not let it then," said Lumley, "for you know it might
catch cold or freeze."

"Not in this weather, surely," retorted Macnab, "and if I did feel
coldish in the circumstances, couldn't I borrow Spooner's
blanket-capote? it might fit me then, for I'd probably be a few sizes
smaller."

"Come, Mac," said I, "give us a song. You know I'm wildly fond of
music; and, most unfortunately, not one of us three can sing a note."

Our visitor was quite willing, and began at once to sing a wild ditty,
in the wilder language of his native land.

He had a sweet, tuneful, sympathetic voice, which was at the same time
powerful, so that we listened to him, sometimes with enthusiasm swelling
our hearts, at other times with tears dimming our eyes. No one, save he
who has been banished to a wilderness and long bereft of music, can
understand the nature of our feelings--of mine, at least.

One evening, after our wounded man had charmed us with several songs,
and we all of us had done what we could, despite our incapacity, to pay
him back in kind, he pulled a sheet of crumpled paper out of his pocket.

"Come," said he, unfolding it, "I've got a poet among the men of Muskrat
House, who has produced a song, which, if not marked by s