had been flogged seized Maclean's
child from the nurse, and ran with it across the mountain-side, till he
reached a place overhanging the sea. And he held out the child over the
sea; and it was no use that Maclean begged on his knees for forgiveness.
Even the passion of loyalty was lost now in the fierceness of his
revenge. This was what the man said--that unless Maclean had his back
bared there and then before all the people, and flogged as he had been
flogged, then the child should be dashed into the sea below. There was
nothing to be done but that--no prayers, no offers, no appeals from the
mother, were of any use. And so it was that Maclean of Lochbuy was
flogged there before his own people, and his enemy above looking on. And
then? When it was over, the man called aloud, 'Revenged! revenged!' and
sprang into the air with the child along with him; and neither of them
was ever seen again after they had sunk into the sea. It is an old
story."

An old story, doubtless, and often told; but its effect on this girl
sitting beside him was strange. Her clasped hands trembled; her eyes
were glazed and fascinated as if by some spell. Mrs. Ross, noticing this
extreme tension of feeling, and fearing it, hastily rose.

"Come, Gertrude," she said, taking the girl by the hand, "we shall be
frightened to death by these stories. Come and sing us a song--a French
song, all about tears, and fountains, and bits of ribbon--or we shall be
seeing the ghosts of murdered Highlanders coming in here in the
daytime."

Macleod, not knowing what he had done, but conscious that something had
occurred, followed then into the drawing-room, and retired to a sofa,
while Miss White sat down to the open piano. He hoped he had not
offended her. He would not frighten her again with any ghastly stories
from the wild northern seas.

And what was this French song that she was about to sing? The pale,
slender fingers were wandering over the keys; and there was a
sound--faint and clear and musical--as of the rippling of summer seas.
And sometimes the sounds came nearer; and now he fancied he recognized
some old familiar strain; and he thought of his cousin Janet somehow,
and of summer days down by the blue waters of the Atlantic. A French
song? Surely if this air, that seemed to come nearer and nearer, was
blown from any earthly land, it had come from the valleys of Lochiel and
Ardgour, and from the still shores of Arisaig and Moidart? Oh yes; it
was a v