h them;
These are the lads I can trust wi' my Charlie!"

Could any man fail to answer? Could any man die otherwise than gladly if
he died with such an appeal ringing in his ears? Macleod did not know
there was scarcely any more volume in this girl's voice now than when
she was singing the plaintive wail that preceded it: it seemed to him
that there was the strength of the tread of armies in it, and a
challenge that could rouse a nation.

"Down through the Lowlands, down wi' the Whigamore,
Loyal true Highlanders, down wi' them rarely!
Ronald and Donald, drive on wi' the broad claymore
Over the neck o' the foes o' Prince Charlie!
Follow thee! follow thee! wha wadna follow thee,
King o' the Highland hearts, bonnie Prince Charlie!"

She shut the book, with a light laugh, and left the piano. She came over
to where Macleod sat. When he saw that she meant to speak to him, he
rose and stood before her.

"I must ask your pardon," said she, smiling, "for singing two Scotch
songs, for I know the pronunciation is very difficult."

He answered with no idle compliment.

"If _Tearlach ban og_, as they used to call him, were alive now," said
he--and indeed there was never any Stuart of them all, not even the Fair
Young Charles himself, who looked more handsome than this same Macleod
of Dare who now stood before her--"you would get him more men to follow
him than any flag or standard he ever raised."

She cast her eyes down.

Mrs. Ross's guests began to leave.

"Gertrude," said she, "will you drive with me for half an hour--the
carriage is at the door? And I know the gentlemen want to have a cigar
in the shade of Kensington Gardens: they might come back and have a cup
of tea with us."

But Miss White had some engagement; she and her father left together;
and the young men followed them almost directly, Mrs. Ross saying that
she would be most pleased to see Sir Keith Macleod any Tuesday or
Thursday afternoon he happened to be passing, as she was always at home
on these days.

"I don't think we can do better than take her advice about the cigar,"
said young Ogilvie, as they crossed to Kensington Gardens. "What do you
think of her?"

"Of Mrs. Ross?"

"Yes."

"Oh, I think she is a very pleasant woman."

"Yes, but," said Mr. Ogilvie, "how did she strike you? Do you think she
is as fascinating as some men think her?"

"I don't know what men think about her," said Macleod. "It never
occur