"Afraid, is ut?" Mrs. Foley snorted. "An' wud I that has lived wid four men be afraid iv a bear? I am not even afeard iv a mouse. Anyways, for bears an' bos they's a dog."

"I thought I heard him whining when I came to the front door."

"Whining?" Mrs. Foley e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed.

"Well, sort of moaning as if he was scratching a sore ear. And then he howled."

"Howled!" Mrs. Foley cried. "Th' nerve iv ye!"

"What's the matter?" Angus asked. "It sounded like a lonesome pup to me."

"Did ut, indade!" snorted Mrs. Foley. "Ye big, on-mannerly blackgyard, that was me, singin'!"

"Singing?" Angus gasped.

"Singin'," Mrs. Foley repeated firmly. "An' a sweet song, too, a rale Irish song. Color blind in th' ears, ye are, ye long lummix! May th'

divil--But phwat's the use? Th' ign'rance iv ye is curse enough!"

"What's the matter, Mary?" Faith Winton's voice asked from the door.

"You're not quarrelling with Angus Mackay, I hope."

"I wud not lower mesilf!" Mrs. Foley replied loftily, "though he said me singin' was like the howlin's iv a purp."

"No, no," Angus protested, "I didn't mean that. I heard your singing, too, and it was fine."

"Yez may be a willin' liar, but yer work is coorse," Mrs. Foley informed him. "Well, I do not set up f'r to be wan iv thim divas. I can raise th'

keen fine over a corpse, but me singin' is privut an' so intended. So I forgive ye, young man, more be token I can see it's herself thinks it's a joke on the old gyurl. For shame, Miss Faith! An' me that's crooned ye in yer cradle many's the long night!"

But there was a twinkle in Mrs. Foley's blue eyes, and Angus began to suspect that her bark was much worse than her bite.

"Mary was my nurse," Faith told him when they were seated in the living room. "She really thinks the world of me, spoils me--and bullies me. But what do you think of my humble home? You haven't seen it since it was finished."

Angus approved the room and its furnishings. There was s.p.a.ce to move, and a fireplace. The chairs were comfortable and strong; there was a s.p.a.cious couch, a well-filled bookcase, a piano and a banjo case.

"I like it," he said. "It's not cluttered up with a lot of junk.

Everything looks as if it could be used. That's what I like. Is that a banjo and do you play it?"

"Yes, I play it."

"I like a banjo better than a piano."

"You Philistine! Why?"

"Perhaps because I'm a Philistine. I don't know just why. All I know is that I _do_ like it better. A piano is sort of machine-made music to me; but with a banjo the player seems to be making the music himself, as if he was singing."

"You mean there is more personal expression."

"Maybe. I don't know anything about music. But a banjo seems to _talk_.

It's the thing for the tunes that everybody knows."

"You and Kipling agree, then. You know his 'Song of the Banjo':

"And the tunes that mean so much to you alone-- Common tunes that make you choke and blow your nose, Vulgar tunes that bring the laugh that hides the groan-- I can rip your very heartstrings out with those."

"Yes, that's the idea. He's right enough there."

"And how about:

"'But the word, the word is mine When the order moves the line, And the lean, locked ranks go roaring down to die,'?"

she asked curiously.

"The only music to fight with and to die to is the pipes," Angus said.

"The pipes? You mean the bagpipes."

"Of course."

"Some people," Faith laughed, "would say that death would be a blessed relief from the sound of them."

Angus smiled grimly. "I know. There are plenty of jokes about the pipes.

But they are no joke to the men who meet the men played into battle to the skirl of them."

"I believe you are right in that," Faith admitted. "I haven't a drop of Scotch blood, so far as I know. But I have heard a pipe band playing 'Lochaber No More' behind a gun carriage which bore a dead soldier; and I have seen the Highland regiments march past the colors at a review, to 'Glendarual' and 'c.o.c.k o' the North,' and heaven knows what gatherings and pibrochs, and I have stood up on my toes and my back hair has felt crinkly. I own up to it. But I love the banjo. It's a little sister of the lonesome."

She took the instrument, a beautiful concert model, from its case, keyed it for a moment and spoke through low, rippling chords.

"Sometimes at night I pick it by the hour--oh, very softly, so as not to disturb anybody--not any particular tune--just odds and ends, anything--and my thoughts go away off wool gathering and I am quite happy. Can you understand such foolishness?"

"Yes," Angus replied seriously. "I can't play anything, or sing, but there are times when I want to--if you can understand that."

She nodded, her fingers brushing the strings. "Yes, I know. Often the person who knows least about music loves it best--down in his soul."

"Play something," Angus urged.

And so Faith Winton played. At first she played consciously; but as the daylight faded and the twilight came she let the strings talk. Bits of old half-forgotten melodies rippled from her fingers, changing, shifting, mingling and merging, now familiar or half familiar and then quite strange; but always tugging, tugging at the heartstrings, as if in the gut and parchment there dwelt a wayward, whimsical soul, half-sad and half-merry, whimpering and chuckling in the growing darkness.

Suddenly the music swept into a rolling, thunderous march, shifted to a rollicking Irish jig, and stopped abruptly with a crash of chords and a ringing of gut and iron.

"Don't stop," Angus said.

"But I've played myself out--for this time. It's dark--quite dark--and I didn't notice. I must get a light."

"I must go. I have never heard playing like that--never. I'll take much of it home with me."

"Come and get more any time," she laughed. "When shall I see you again?"

"To-morrow or next day. There are several things to be done here. If I can't come myself, I'll send Gus."