lly the lights went up, once more she stepped to the front of
the stage, nodded to the orchestra leader, who waved his baton, and
began "Loch Lomond." Sweet and clear the voice rose and fell; they
cheered after the first verse; they cheered again at the close of the
second; and then--she saw Tommy Watson, who was staring straight at
her, his face brighter now, his eyes aflame, his lips slightly parted.
What was it that brought the tears to her eyes; that made her falter
and sway a little, and then stand silent and helpless while the
orchestra twice started the air for the third verse, and the audience
begin to grow restless?

The stage manager, alarmed and worried, was about to ring down the
curtain when, from the balcony, a clear boyish voice took up the song.
All eyes were turned in that direction. Flo Dearmore herself flung out
her hands as though urging the people to listen and the orchestra to
play on. Whimple started from his seat and then sat down again on
Epstein's sharp "Leave him alone," and William, looking down on the
stage, unconscious of anything but the vision of helpless loveliness
there, sang in his sweet boyish voice:--

"The wild flowers spring, and the wee birdies sing,
And in sunshine the waters are gleaming,
But the broken heart, it kens nae second spring,
Though the waeful may cease frae their greetin'."

She joined him then in the refrain, both keeping perfect time:--

"Oh! you'll tak' the high road and I'll tak' the low road,
And I'll be in Scotland afore ye,
But me an' my true love will never meet again,
On the bonnie, bonnie banks o' Loch Lomond."

There followed a scene the like of which the Variety had never
witnessed. For long minutes the applause and cheering echoed and
re-echoed through the theatre. Everybody told everybody else what a
clever act it was; but they had been "on to it" from the first. Scores
of people confided to other scores that they had noticed the lad come
into the theatre and take the seat reserved for him. They wondered how
old he was; if he was "her brother," and between times they hoped that
there would be a repeat.

But as a "repeater" William would not have been a success. He was
trembling and almost hysterical when he sat down, and Tommy Watson was
in almost as bad a condition. Whimple was uneasy; Epstein only seemed
to be cool. He passed the word along, and, as the curtain went up for
the next act, the four friends quietly le