what is the song you would sing now,
sweetheart? Shall we finish up and have done with it, with a song at the
end? That is the way in the theatre, you know--a dance and a song as the
people go. And what shall our song be now? There was one that Norman
Ogilvie used to sing."

"I don't know why you should talk to me like that, Keith," said she,
though she seemed somewhat frightened by this fierce gayety. "I was
going to tell you that if Mrs. Stuart had a piano I would very gladly
sing one or two songs for your mother and Miss Macleod when we went over
there to-morrow. You have frequently asked me. Indeed, I have brought
with me the very songs I sung to you the first time I saw you--at Mrs.
Ross's."

Instantly his memory flew back to that day--to the hushed little room
over the sunlit gardens--to the beautiful, gentle, sensitive girl who
seemed to have so strange an interest in the Highlands--to the wonderful
thrill that went through him when she began to sing with an exquisite
pathos, "A wee bird cam' to our ha' door," and to the prouder enthusiasm
that stirred him when she sang, "I'll to Lochiel, and Appin, and kneel
to them!" These were fine, and tender, and proud songs. There was no
gloom about them--nothing about a grave, and the dark winter-time, and a
faithless lost love. This song of Norman Ogilvie's that he had gayly
proposed they should sing now? What had Major Stuart, or his wife, or
any one in Mull to do with "Death's black wine?"

"I meant to tell you, Keith," said she, somewhat nervously, "that I had
signed an engagement to remain at the Piccadilly Theatre till Christmas
next. I knew you wouldn't mind--I mean, you would be considerate, and
you would understand how difficult it is for one to break away all at
once from one's old associations. And then, you know, Keith," said she,
shyly, "though you may not like the theatre, you ought to be proud of my
success, as even my friends and acquaintances are. And as they are all
anxious to see me make another appearance in tragedy, I really should
like to try it; so that when my portrait appears in the Academy next
year, people may not be saying, 'Look at the impertinence of that girl
appearing as a tragic actress when she can do nothing beyond the
familiar modern comedy!' I should have told you all about it before,
Keith, but I know you hate to hear any talk about the theatre; and I
sha'n't bore you again, you may depend on that. Isn't it time to go back
now? See