ay the Flowers of the Forest. The Wind that Shakes the Barley cannot
have been named from the barley after it was cut, but while it stood in
the field: the Flowers of the Forest was of the gathered harvest.

He tried the air once over in the dark, and then carried his violin down
to the room where Mr. and Miss Lammie sat.

'I think I can play 't noo, Mr. Lammie,' he said abruptly.

'Play what, callant?' asked his host.

'The Flooers o' the Forest.'

'Play awa' than.'

And Robert played--not so well as he had hoped. I dare say it was
a humble enough performance, but he gave something at least of the
expression Mr. Lammie desired. For, the moment the tune was over, he
exclaimed,

'Weel dune, Robert man! ye'll be a fiddler some day yet!'

And Robert was well satisfied with the praise.

'I wish yer mother had been alive,' the farmer went on. 'She wad hae
been rael prood to hear ye play like that. Eh! she likit the fiddle
weel. And she culd play bonny upo' the piana hersel'. It was something
to hear the twa o' them playing thegither, him on the fiddle--that verra
fiddle o' 's father's 'at ye hae i' yer han'--and her on the piana.
Eh! but she was a bonnie wuman as ever I saw, an' that quaiet! It's my
belief she never thocht aboot her ain beowty frae week's en' to week's
en', and that's no sayin' little--is 't, Aggy?'

'I never preten't ony richt to think aboot sic,' returned Miss Lammie,
with a mild indignation.

'That's richt, lass. Od, ye're aye i' the richt--though I say 't 'at
sudna.'

Miss Lammie must indeed have been good-natured, to answer only with a
genuine laugh. Shargar looked explosive with anger. But Robert would
fain hear more of his mother.

'What was my mother like, Mr. Lammie?' he asked.

'Eh, my man! ye suld hae seen her upon a bonnie bay mere that yer father
gae her. Faith! she sat as straught as a rash, wi' jist a hing i' the
heid o' her, like the heid o' a halm o' wild aits.'

'My father wasna that ill till her than?' suggested Robert.

'Wha ever daured say sic a thing?' returned Mr. Lammie, but in a tone
so far from satisfactory to Robert, that he inquired no more in that
direction.

I need hardly say that from that night Robert was more than ever
diligent with his violin.

CHAPTER XXI. THE DRAGON.

Next day, his foot was so much better that he sent Shargar to Rothieden
to buy the string, taking with him Robert's school-bag, in which to
carry off his Sunday shoes; for as to