arned it."

"Barry Seymour's a puir weak fule and canna rule his ain hoose," came
the curt answer.

Mrs. McBain habitually spoke as excellent English as only a Scotswoman
can, but it pleased her on occasion to assume the Doric--much as a
duchess may her tiara.

"Barry's a dear," protested Nan, "and he doesn't need to play at being
master in his own house."

"I'm willing to believe you. That red-headed body is mistress and
master too."

Sandy grinned.

"I consider that remark eminently personal. The hue of one's hair is a
misfortune, not a fault," he submitted teasingly. "In Kitty you must
at least allow that the red takes a more pleasing form than it does
with me."

Mrs. McBain sniffed.

"You'll be tellin' me next that her hair's the colour God made it," she
observed indignantly.

Sandy and Nan broke into laughter.

"Well, mine is, anyway," said the former. "It would never have been
this colour if I'd had a say in the matter."

Eliza surveyed her offspring with disfavour.

"It's an ill thing, Sandy McBain, to question the ways of the Almighty
who made you."

"I don't. It's you who seem far more disposed to disparage the
completed article than I." He beamed at her seraphically.

Eliza's thin lips relaxed into an unwilling smile. Sandy was as
equally the joy of her heart as he was the flagellation of her
conscience.

"Well, I'll own you're the first of the McBains to go daft over music."

She handed a cup of tea to Nan as she spoke. Then asked;

"And how's your uncle, St. John?"

"He's at Mallow, too. We all are--Penelope and Uncle David, and Ralph
Fenton--"

"And who may Mr. Fenton be? I've never met him--have I, Sandy?"

"No. He's a well-known singer Kitty's recently admitted into the fold."

"Do you mean he earns his living by singing at concerts?"

"Yes. And a jolly good living, too."

A shadow fell across Sandy's pleasant freckled face. It was a matter
of unavailing regret to him that owing to his parents' prejudice
against music and musicians he had been debarred from earning a living
in like manner with his long, capable fingers. Eliza saw the shadow,
and her brows contracted in a slight frown. Vaguely she was beginning
to realise some small part of the suffering which the parental
restriction had imposed upon her son--the perpetual irritation of a
thwarted longing which it had entailed. But she had not yet advanced
sufficiently along the widening road of thought to gr