eyond. "It is absolutely perfect. We have
nothing like this in Scotland. You can't beat for all round beauty a real
old mellow lived-in English country seat; especially when you get a
twenty acre lake, with islands and swans, all complete. And I suppose the
woods beyond, as far as one can see, belong to the Inglebys--or rather,
to Lady Ingleby. What a pity there is no son."

"Jim," said Myra, "I have so looked forward to showing you my home."

He stepped close to her at once. "Then show it to me, dear," he said. "I
would rather be alone with you in your own little home--I saw it, as we
drove up--than waiting about, in this vast expanse of beauty, for Lady
Ingleby."

"Jim," said Myra, "do you remember a little tune I often hummed down in
Cornwall; and, when you asked me what it was, I said you should hear the
words some day?"

Jim looked puzzled. "Really dear--you hummed so many little tunes----"

"Oh, I know," said Myra; "and I have not much ear. But this was very
special. I want to sing it to you now. Listen!"

And looking up at him, her soft eyes full of love, Myra sang, with slight
alterations of her own, the last verse of the old Scotch ballad,
"Huntingtower."

"Blair in Athol's mine, Jamie,
Fair Dunkeld is mine, laddie;
Saint Johnstown's bower,
And Huntingtower,
And all that's mine, is thine, laddie."

"Very pretty," said Jim, "but you've mixed it, my dear. Jamie bestowed
all his possessions on the lassie. You sang it the wrong way round."

"No, no," cried Myra, eagerly. "There _is_ no wrong way round. Providing
they both love, it does not really matter which gives. The one who
happens to possess, bestows. If you were a cowboy, Jim, and you loved a
woman with lands and houses, in taking her, you would take all that was
hers."

"I guess I'd take her out to my ranch and teach her to milk cows,"
laughed Jim Airth. Then turning about under the tree and looking in all
directions: "But seriously, Myra, where is Lady Ingleby? She should keep
her appointments. We cannot waste our whole afternoon waiting here. I
want my girl; and I want her in her own little home, alone. Cannot we
find Lady Ingleby?"

Then Myra rose, radiant, and came and stood before him. The sunbeams
shone through the beech leaves and danced in her grey eyes. She had never
looked more perfect in her sweet loveliness. The man took it all in, and
the glory of possessio