e
happy. Can you understand such foolishness?"

"Yes," Angus replied seriously. "I can't play anything, or sing, but
there are times when I want to--if you can understand that."

She nodded, her fingers brushing the strings. "Yes, I know. Often the
person who knows least about music loves it best--down in his soul."

"Play something," Angus urged.

And so Faith Winton played. At first she played consciously; but as the
daylight faded and the twilight came she let the strings talk. Bits of
old half-forgotten melodies rippled from her fingers, changing,
shifting, mingling and merging, now familiar or half familiar and then
quite strange; but always tugging, tugging at the heartstrings, as if in
the gut and parchment there dwelt a wayward, whimsical soul, half-sad
and half-merry, whimpering and chuckling in the growing darkness.
Suddenly the music swept into a rolling, thunderous march, shifted to a
rollicking Irish jig, and stopped abruptly with a crash of chords and a
ringing of gut and iron.

"Don't stop," Angus said.

"But I've played myself out--for this time. It's dark--quite dark--and I
didn't notice. I must get a light."

"I must go. I have never heard playing like that--never. I'll take much
of it home with me."

"Come and get more any time," she laughed. "When shall I see you again?"

"To-morrow or next day. There are several things to be done here. If I
can't come myself, I'll send Gus."

"Try to come yourself," said Faith Winton.

Angus, as he rode homeward, found himself dwelling on these words.

CHAPTER XX

AN ENEMY AT WORK

Spring merged into early summer, and Jean came home. Angus met her, and
before they were clear of town he was undergoing a feminine
cross-examination as to Faith Winton.

"Is she pretty, Angus?"

"You girls are all alike," he grinned. "That's what she asked about
you."

"What did you say?"

"I said I hadn't noticed."

"You're a nice brother!"

"That's exactly what she said."

"Well, I like her for that. But is _she_ pretty?"

"Well, I don't know that a girl would call her pretty. She doesn't dress
herself up like a French wedding and frizzle her hair and all that, but
she's--she's--oh, darned if I know! She looks _clean_."

"Clean!" Miss Jean cried. "Well, I should hope so!"

"I mean clean-run, clean-strain, clean-built, like a good horse."

"My heavens, Angus, don't tell me she's built like a horse!"

"Don't be a little fool!" her brother growle