ng in the
part she was then performing:--

"The morning bells are swinging, ringing,
Hail to the day!
The birds are winging, singing
To the golden day--
To the joyous day--
The morning bells are swinging, ringing,
And what do they say?
O bring my love to my love!
O bring my love to-day!
O bring my love to my love!
To be my love alway!'"

It certainly was cruel to treat poor Mrs. Ross's home-made lyrics so;
but Miss White was burlesquing herself as well as the song she had to
sing. And as her father did not know to what lengths this iconoclastic
fit might lead her, he abruptly bade her good-night and went to bed, no
doubt hoping that next morning would find the demon exorcised from his
daughter.

As for her, she had one more loving look over the skins, and then she
carefully read through the note that accompanied them. There was a smile
on her face--perhaps of pleasure, perhaps of amusement at the simplicity
of the lines. However, she turned aside, and got hold of a small
writing-desk, which she placed on the table.

"'Oh, here is, Glenogie, a letter for thee,'"

she hummed to herself, with a rather proud look on her face, as she
seated herself and opened the desk.

CHAPTER XVII.

"FHIR A BHATA!"

Young Ogilvie had obtained some brief extension of his leave, but even
that was drawing to a close; and Macleod saw with a secret dread that
the hour of his departure was fast approaching. And yet he had not
victimized the young man. After that first burst of confidence he had
been sparing in his references to the trouble that had beset him. Of
what avail, besides, could Mr. Ogilvie's counsels be? Once or twice he
had ventured to approach the subject with some commonplace assurances
that there were always difficulties in the way of two people getting
married, and that they had to be overcome with patience and courage. The
difficulties that Macleod knew of as between himself and that impossible
goal were deeper than any mere obtaining of the consent of friends or
the arrangement of a way of living. From the moment that the terrible
truth was forced on him he had never regarded his case but as quite
hopeless; and yet that in no way moderated his consuming desire to see
her--to hear her speak--even to have correspondence with her. It was
something that he could send her a parcel of otter-skins.

But al