"Are you applying the name of Belial to poor old Barry?" enquired Sandy with interest. "I don't consider he's half earned 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 a.s.sume the Doric--much as a d.u.c.h.ess 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 G.o.d 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 grasp the pitiful, irreparable waste it had involved of a talent bordering on genius.

She pursed her lips obstinately together.

"There'll come no blessing with money that's earned by mere pleasuring," she averred.

"If you only knew what hard work it means to be a successful musician, Aunt Eliza, you'd be less drastic in your criticism," interposed Nan, with warmth.

Eliza's shrewd eyes twinkled.

"You work hard, don't you, my dear?" she observed drily.

Nan laughed, colouring a little.

"Perhaps I should work harder if Uncle David didn't spoil me so. You know he's increased my allowance lately?"

Eliza snorted indignantly.

"I always kent he was mair fulish than maist o' his s.e.x."

"It's rather an endearing kind of foolishness," remarked Sandy.

His mother eyed him sharply.

"We're not put into the world to be endearing," she retorted, "but to do our duty."

"It might be possible to combine both," suggested Sandy.

"Well, you're not the one to do it," she answered grimly. "And what's Penelope doing?" she continued, turning to Nan. "She's more sense than the rest of ye put together, for all she's so daft about music."

"Penelope," said Sandy solemnly, "is preparing to enter upon the duties and privileges of matrimony."

"What may you mean by that?"

Sandy stirred his tea while Eliza waited impatiently for his answer.

"She's certainly 'walking out,'" he maintained.

"And that's by no means the shortest road to matrimony," snapped Eliza.

"My cook's been walking out with the village carpenter ever since she came to St. Wennys, but she's no nearer a wedding ring than she was twelve months ago."

"I think," observed Sandy gravely, "that greater success will attend Penelope's perambulations. Kitty was so c.o.c.k-a-hoop over it that she couldn't refrain from 'phoning the good news on Sunday morning. I meant to tell you when you came back from church, but clean forgot."

"And who's the man?"

"Penelope's young man? Oh, Ralph Fenton, the fellow who makes 'pleasuring' pay so uncommonly well. He's been occupying an ignominious position at the wheels of Penelope's chariot ever since they both came to Mallow. I think Kitty Seymour would make a matrimonial agent _par excellence_--young men and maidens introduced under the most favourable circ.u.mstances and _no_ fee when suited!"--Sandy flourished his arms expressively.

"And if she could find a good, sensible la.s.sie to tak' ye in hand, Sandy McBain, I'd no be grudgin' a fee."

"No good, mother of mine. I lost my heart to Nan here too long ago, and now"--with a lightness of tone that effectually concealed his feelings--"not to be outdone by Penny, she herself has gone and got engaged. So I shall live and die alone."

"And what like is the man ye've chosen?" demanded Eliza, turning to Nan. "Not another of these music-daft creatures, I hope?"

"I think you'll quite approve, Aunt Eliza," answered Nan with a becoming meekness. "I'm engaged to marry Roger Trenby."