uld be isolated and yet see all that was going on up in the
village. Here Uncle Hughie regularly gathered about him a little group
of friends. Next to the minister, he was considered the most learned
man in the community, and the Cameron milkstand was a sort of
high-class club, where only the serious-minded were admitted, and where
one heard all sorts of profound subjects discussed, such as astronomy
and the destiny of the British Empire.

To-night the club was to assemble for a special purpose. Uncle Hughie
had promised the minister that they would all accompany him down the
ravine to give a welcome and a kind word to the poor tramp who had come
to live in Sandy McQuarry's old shanty by the Drowned Lands. So the
philosopher was waiting for his friends, and as he sang he gazed
expectantly up the village street.

From across the ravine, growing purple in the evening shadows, came the
sound of children's voices at play, and the joyous bark of a dog. Down
in the river pasture hoarse shouts, mingled with a dull thud, thud,
told that the young men were playing football. Women could be seen
gossiping across from their home gates, for while the men might gather
in groups at the store or the post-office, Elmbrook was not
sufficiently advanced to have yet felt the woman's club movement. The
soft, plashy sound of the little waterfall, pouring down under the
bridge, made a charming accompaniment to the mingled harmony.

"_Oh, there's many a man o' the Cameron Clan,_"

sang Uncle Hughie.

There was a ring of triumph in his voice, for he had finished the whole
line with one start, a most unusual achievement. He generally started
on a high key, and as the tune climbed up the word "Cameron" was far
beyond the range of human voice. He would make a shrieking attempt at
it, collapse, and start again, quite cheerfully. But by some strange
misunderstanding between his ear and his vocal cords, no matter how
deep he might lay the foundations of his song, he would raise upon it
such a lofty structure that the pinnacle was sure to be unattainable.
He always saw the heights ahead, and made a gasping effort to gain
them, his voice strained to its utmost, his face wearing a look of
agony. He failed many a time, but invariably succeeded in the end, and
with a broad smile of triumph would sweep into the refrain:

"_I hear the pibroch sounding, sounding,
Deep o'er the mountain and glen._"

Old Uncle Hughie's whole pain-rac