or did she ever
quite fully abandon herself to delight in the guitar. It continued to be
a "foreign" and "feckless" sort of instrument. But in spite of her there
were times when the old lady paused in her knitting and sat with sombre
eyes looking far across the pond and into the shady isles of the woods
on the other side while Iola sang some of her quaint Southern "baby
songs."

Under Dick's tuition the girl learned some of the Highland laments and
love songs of the North, to which his mother had hushed him to sleep
through his baby years. To Barney these songs took place with the Psalms
of David, if, indeed, they were not more sacred, and it was with a shock
at first that he heard the Southern girl with her "foreign instrument"
try over these songs that none but his mother had ever sung to him.
Listening to Iola's soft, thrilling voice carrying these old Highland
airs, he was conscious of a strange incongruity. They undoubtedly took
on a new beauty, but they lost something as well.

"No one sings them like your mother, Barney," said Margaret after Dick
had been drilling Iola on some of their finer shadings and cadences,
"and they are quite different with the guitar, too. They are not the
same a bit. They make me see different things and feel different things
when your mother sings."

"Different how?" said Dick.

"I can't tell, but somehow they give me a different taste in my mouth,
just the difference between eating your mother's scones with rich creamy
milk and eating fruit cake and honey with tea to drink."

"I know," said Barney gravely. "They lose the Scotch with the guitar.
They are sweet and beautiful, wonderful, but they are a different kind
altogether. To me it's the difference between a wood violet and a garden
rose."

"Listen to the poetry of him. Come, mother," cried Dick, "sing us one
now."

"Me sing!" cried the mother aghast. "After yon!" nodding toward Iola.
"You would not be shaming your mother, Richard."

"Shaming you, indeed!" cried Margaret, indignantly.

"Do, Mrs. Boyle," entreated Iola. "I have never heard you sing. Indeed,
I did not know you could sing."

Something in her voice grated upon Barney's ear, but he spoke no word.

"Sing!" cried Dick. "You ought to hear her. Now, mother, for the honor
of the heather! Give us 'Can Ye Sew Cushions?' That's a 'baby song,'
too."

"No," said Barney quietly, "Sing 'The Mac'Intosh,' mother." And he began
to play that exquisite Highland lament.