nished task--and he felt himself to be a free man--far freer than he
had been for many years. And, to add to the interest of his days, he
became engrossed in a scheme--a strange scheme which built itself up in
his head like a fairy palace, wherein everything beautiful, graceful,
noble, helpful and precious, found place and position, and grew from
promise to fulfilment as easily as a perfect rosebud ripens to a perfect
rose. But he said nothing of his thoughts. He hugged them, as it were,
to himself, and toyed with them as though they were jewels,--precious
jewels selected specially to be set in a crown of inestimable worth.
Meanwhile his health kept fairly equable, though he was well aware
within his own consciousness that he did not get stronger. But he was
strong enough to be merry at times--and his kindly temper and cheery
conversation made him a great favourite with the Weircombe folk, who
were never tired of "looking in" as they termed it, on Mary, and "'avin'
a bit of a jaw with old David."

Sociable evenings they had too, during that winter--evenings when Angus
Reay came in to tea and stayed to supper, and after supper entertained
them by singing in a deep baritone voice as soft as honey, the old
Scotch songs now so hopelessly "out of fashion"--such as "My Nannie
O"--"Ae fond kiss"--and "Highland Mary," in which last exquisite ballad
he was always at his best. And Mary sang also, accompanying herself on a
quaint old Hungarian zither, which she said had been left with her
father as guarantee for ten shillings which he had lent to a street
musician wandering about Barnstaple. The street musician disappeared and
the ten shillings were never returned, so Mary took possession of the
zither, and with the aid of a cheap instruction book, managed to learn
enough of its somewhat puzzling technique to accompany her own voice
with a few full, rich, plaintive chords. And it was in this fashion that
Angus heard her first sing what she called "A song of the sea," running
thus:

I heard the sea cry out in the night
Like a fretful child--
Moaning under the pale moonlight
In a passion wild--
And my heart cried out with the sea, in tears,
For the sweet lost joys of my vanished years!

I heard the sea laugh out in the noon
Like a girl at play--
All forgot was the mournful moon
In the dawn of day!
And my heart laughed out with the sea, in gladness,
And I thought