he
lumberman's hour of bliss had arrived. Even old man Nelson looked a
shade less melancholy than usual as he sat alone, well away from the
fire, smoking steadily and silently. When the second pipes were well
a-going, one of the men took down a violin from the wall and handed
it to Lachlan Campbell. There were two brothers Campbell just out from
Argyll, typical Highlanders: Lachlan, dark, silent, melancholy, with the
face of a mystic, and Angus, red-haired, quick, impulsive, and devoted
to his brother, a devotion he thought proper to cover under biting,
sarcastic speech.

Lachlan, after much protestation, interspersed with gibes from his
brother, took the violin, and, in response to the call from all sides,
struck up 'Lord Macdonald's Reel.' In a moment the floor was filled with
dancers, whooping and cracking their fingers in the wildest manner. Then
Baptiste did the 'Red River Jig,' a most intricate and difficult series
of steps, the men keeping time to the music with hands and feet.

When the jig was finished, Sandy called for 'Lochaber No More'; but
Campbell said, 'No, no! I cannot play that to-night. Mr. Craig will
play.'

Craig took the violin, and at the first note I knew he was no ordinary
player. I did not recognise the music, but it was soft and thrilling,
and got in by the heart, till every one was thinking his tenderest and
saddest thoughts.

After he had played two or three exquisite bits, he gave Campbell his
violin, saying, 'Now, "Lochaber," Lachlan.'

Without a word Lachlan began, not 'Lochaber'--he was not ready for that
yet--but 'The Flowers o' the Forest,' and from that wandered through
'Auld Robin Gray' and 'The Land o' the Leal,' and so got at last to that
most soul-subduing of Scottish laments, 'Lochaber No More.' At the first
strain, his brother, who had thrown himself on some blankets behind the
fire, turned over on his face, feigning sleep. Sandy M'Naughton took
his pipe out of his mouth, and sat up straight and stiff, staring into
vacancy, and Graeme, beyond the fire, drew a short, sharp breath. We
had often sat, Graeme and I, in our student-days, in the drawing-room at
home, listening to his father wailing out 'Lochaber' upon the pipes, and
I well knew that the awful minor strains were now eating their way into
his soul.

Over and over again the Highlander played his lament. He had long since
forgotten us, and was seeing visions of the hills and lochs and glens of
his far-away native la