always sit up for the coming-in of the New Year,"--she
replied--"Father used to do it, and I like to keep up all father's ways.
Only I thought David might feel too tired. You must sing to us, Mr.
Reay, to pass the hours away."

"And so must you!" he replied.

And she did sing that night as she had never sung to them before, with a
fuller voice and more passion than she had hitherto shown,--one little
wild ballad in particular taking Reay's fancy so much that he asked her
to sing it more than once. The song contained just three six-line
stanzas, having little merit save in their suggestiveness.

Oh love, my love! I have giv'n you my heart
Like a rose full-blown,
With crimson petals trembling apart--
It is all your own--
What will you do with it. Dearest,--say?
Keep it for ever or throw it away?

Oh love, my love! I have giv'n you my life,
Like a ring of gold;
Symbol of peace in a world of strife,
To have and to hold.
What will you do with it, Dearest,--say?
Treasure it always, or throw it away?

Oh love, my love! Have all your will--
I am yours to the end;
Be false or faithful--comfort or kill,
Be lover or friend,--
Where gifts are given they must remain,
I never shall ask for them back again!

"Do you know that you have a very beautiful voice, Miss Mary?" said
Angus, after hearing this for the second time.

"Oh, I don't think so at all,"--she answered, quickly; "Father used to
like to hear me sing--but I can only just give ballads their meaning,
and pronounce the words carefully so the people may know what I am
trying to sing about. I've no real voice."

"You have!" And Angus turned to Helmsley for his opinion--"Hasn't she,
David?"

"Her voice is the sweetest _I_ ever heard,"--replied Helmsley--"But then
I'm not much of a judge."

And his thoughts went roving back to certain entertainments in London
which he had given for the benefit of his wealthy friends, when he had
paid as much as five or six hundred guineas in fees to famous opera
singers, that they might shriek or warble, as their respective talents
dictated, to crowds of indifferent loungers in his rooms, who cared no
more for music than they did for religion. He almost smiled as he
recalled those nights, and contrasted them with this New Year's evening,
when seated in an humble cottage, he had for his companions only a
lowly-born poor woman, and an equally lowl