of dreams. It was pale, yet not
bright like the light of dawn. It was more like a light glimmering over
a sheet of water, a light made of the water itself. Almost I expected to
see the Heart rise up in the ebony and silver box, and the box opening.

"You look like a young seeress," my Knight said. "What is it that you
see with your great eyes gazing through the dusk?"

"I see--a heart," I answered. "I think I see a heart."

"That is very intelligent of you," he said, in a changed tone. "Come,
child, it's time I took you home."

"Is there the ghost of a heart floating here?" I asked, wishing to
linger. But he took my hand and drew me toward the gate.

"To me," he said dryly, "it appears to be a real heart--almost too real
for comfort."

We walked back to the inn, and he was uninterestingly commonplace all
the way. He talked about dinner, and buying petrol for the car, and told
me dull facts about tiresome things called carburettors. It would have
been a horrid anticlimax, spoiling all the romance of Sweetheart Abbey,
if he had not changed later on. But he did change. There was a little
piano in the sitting-room they gave us, and Mrs. James began drumming
out a few Scotch airs, warbling the words in a high, thin voice rather
like that of an intelligent insect. There was one tune I knew, and I
couldn't resist joining in. At the end Sir S. applauded.

"What a pity her grandmamma wouldn't let her take lessons, as I once
ventured to suggest!" said Mrs. James. "She has a true ear, and a sweet
voice wonderfully like her mother's, which I quite well remember. But
Mrs. MacDonald had the idea that music lessons would lead to vanity.
Don't you think, sir" (she often slips in a respectful "sir"), "that her
voice would repay instruction?"

"I do," pronounced the great Somerled.

"I'm sure _you_ sing," went on Mrs. James. "I flatter myself I can
always tell by people's faces."

"Like Barrie, I never had lessons," he said. "But I suppose we
Highlanders are born with music in our blood."

"Then you do sing?" she persisted.

"Only to please myself. Not that it does!"

"Will you sing to please us?"

"It wouldn't please you."

"Barrie, _you_ ask."

"The Princess commands!" I said, not expecting him to humour my
impudence, but he did, by going at once to the piano. It had lisped and
stammered awkwardly for Mrs. James, but it obeyed him as if the keys
were mesmerized. He played a prelude, and then sang "Annie Laurie," in