oods,
and James MacDonald, or Weaver Jimmie, as he was called, was such a
familiar figure at Big Malcolm's that even Bruce merely raised his eyes
as he entered. Mrs. MacDonald smiled her welcome, Big Malcolm shoved
forward a chair, and the music flowed on uninterrupted.

Weaver Jimmie was a young man, short, and thick-set. He was something
of an anomaly; for, while he was the coolest fighter in the township of
Oro, and gloried in strife, he was nervous and embarrassed to the verge
of distraction when in company, particularly if it consisted of the
fair sex. This diffidence partly arose from the fact that poor Jimmie
was hopelessly ugly, and painfully aware of his shortcomings. His
chief characteristics were a brilliant and bristling red beard and a
pair of long, flat feet. He realised to the full that these obtrusive
features were anything but things of beauty, and found them a sorrow
forever in his vain attempts to conceal them.

At Big Malcolm's invitation he moved up to the fire in nervous haste,
and with a deprecating smile; dropped suddenly into a chair, and tilted
it back in imitation of Callum's easy nonchalance; but finding the
character difficult to maintain in view of his feet, he suddenly came
down to the horizontal once more, and in so doing descended upon poor
Bruce's tail. That unoffending canine uttered a yelp of pain, echoed
by Scotty, who sprang to comfort him; and Rory, whose musical ear had
been irritated by the disturbance, suddenly drew his bow with a
discordant rasp across the strings, and ended the melodious song with a
long, wolf-like howl.

"Hoots, toots, Rory lad!" cried his mother reproachfully. "Come away,
Jimmie man, come away to the fire, it will be a cold night indeed."

But Weaver Jimmie was so overcome by his embarrassing mistake that,
instead of obeying, he backed away into the shadows like a restive
horse.

"And how will all the folk in the glen be, Jimmie?" asked Big Malcolm.

Under cover of the conversation that ensued, Rory gently drew his bow
across the strings, and softly sang an old ditty that had an especial
meaning for their guest--

"Oh, Jinny banged, Jinny banged, Jinny banged the Weaver!
Ah cackled like a clockin' hen,
When Jinny banged the Weaver!"

Callum Fiach's eyes danced, and Weaver Jimmie laughed sheepishly. He
took off his cap, replaced it again, smoothed his whiskers furiously,
and then gazed around as if seeking a means of escape.

"Don'