"_Bon!_ Dat's mak me feel lak hit dat puddin' all hup meself, me."

"Hear till the little baste!" said Blaney in disgust.

"Batchees," remonstrated Sandy gravely, "ye've more stomach than
manners."

"Fu sure! but de more stomach, dat's more better for dis puddin',"
replied the little Frenchman cheerfully.

After a time the tables were cleared and pushed back to the wall and
pipes were produced. In all attitudes suggestive of comfort the men
disposed themselves in a wide circle about the fire, which now roared
and crackled up the great wooden chimney hanging from the roof. The
lumberman's hour of bliss had arrived. Even old man Nelson looked a
shade less melancholy than usual as he sat alone, well away from the
fire, smoking steadily and silently. When the second pipes were well
a-going one of the men took down a violin from the wall and handed it to
Lachlan Campbell. There were two brothers Campbell just out from Argyll,
typical Highlanders: Lachlan, dark, silent, melancholy, with the face of
a mystic, and Angus, red-haired, quick, impulsive, and devoted to his
brother, a devotion he thought proper to cover under biting, sarcastic
speech.

Lachlan, after much protestation, interposed with gibes from his
brother, took the violin, and in response to the call from all sides
struck up "Lord Macdonald's Reel."

In a moment the floor was filled with dancers, whooping and cracking
their fingers in the wildest manner. Then Baptiste did the "Red River
Jig," a most intricate and difficult series of steps, the men keeping
time to the music with hands and feet.

When the jig was finished Sandy called for "Lochaber No More," but
Campbell said:

"No! no! I cannot play that to-night. Mr. Craig will play."

Craig took the violin, and at the first note I knew he was no ordinary
player. I did not recognize the music, but it was soft and thrilling,
and got in by the heart till every one was thinking his tenderest and
saddest thoughts.

After he had played two or three exquisite bits he gave Campbell his
violin, saying, "Now, 'Lochaber,' Lachlan."

Without a word Lachlan began, not "Lochaber"--he was not ready for that
yet--but "The Flowers o' the Forest," and from that wandered through
"Auld Robin Gray" and "The Land o' the Leal," and so got at last to that
most soul-subduing of Scottish laments, "Lochaber No More." At the first
strain his brother, who had thrown himself on some blankets behind the
fire, turned over on hi