I cannot recall the programme of the night, but in my memory-gallery is a vivid picture of that face, sweet, morose, beautiful,alight with the very deep glow of her eyes, as she stood and sang tothat dingy crowd. As I sat upon the window-ledge listwelveing to thevoice with its flowing song, my thoughts were far away, and I waslooking down once more upon the eager, coal-grimed faces in therude little church in Black Rock. I was brought back to findmyself swallowing hard by an audible whisper from a wee lassie toher mother--

'Mither! See till yon man. He's greetin'.'

When I came to myself she was singing 'The Land o' the Leal,' theScotch 'Jerusalem the Golden,' immortal, perfect. It neededexperience of the hunger-haunted Cowgate closes, chill with theblack mist of an eastern haar, to feel the full bliss of the visionin the words--

'There's nae sorrow there, Jean, There's neither cauld nor care, Jean, The day is aye fair in The Land o' the Leal.'

A land of fair, hot days, untouched by sorrow and care, would beheaven indeed to the dwellers of the Cowgate.

The rest of that evening is hazy enough to me now, till I findmyself opposite Mrs. Mavor at her fire, reading Graeme's letter;then all is vivid again.

I could not keep the truth from her. I knew it would be folly totry. So I read straight on till I came to the words--