"Barney?"
"Barney, indeed!" echoed Jack indignantly. "Oh, the ingratitude of the female heart! Here for all these weeks I have--"
"Forgive me, Jack. I am quite sure you won't be hard-hearted enough to banish me."
"An hour on the library couch, whence one can look upon the sea, in an atmosphere of restful quiet, listening to cheerful but not too exciting conversation," said Jack gravely.
"And music, Doctor?" inquired Iola, with mock humility.
"Well, I'll sing a little myself," replied Jack.
"Oh, my dear Iola," cried Miss Ruthven, "hasten to bed, I beg of you, and save us all. And yet, do you know, I rather like to hear Dr. Charrington sing. It makes me think of our automobile tour in the Highlands last year," she continued with mischievous gravity.
"Ah," said Jack, much flattered, "I don't quite--"
"Oh, the horn, you know."
"Wretch! Now I refuse outright to sing."
"Really? And after we had prepared ourselves for the--ah--experience."
"How do you feel now, Iola?" said Jack, quietly placing his fingers upon her pulse.
"Perfectly strong, I assure you. Listen." And she ran up her chromatics in a voice rich and strong and clear.
"Well, this is most wonderful!" exclaimed Jack. "Her pulse is strong, even, steady. Her respiration is normal."
"I told you!" cried Iola triumphantly. "Now you will let me sing--not a big song, but just that wee Scotch thing I learned from old Jennie. Barney's mother used to sing it."
"My dear Iola," entreated Lady Ruthven, "do you think you should venture? Do you think she should, Dr. Boyle?"
"Don't ask me," said Barney. "I should forbid it were it anyone else."
"But it isn't anyone else," persisted Iola, "and my doctor says yes. I'll only hum, Jack."
"Well, one only. And mind, no fugues, arpeggios, double-stoppings, and such frills."
She took her guitar. "I'll sing this for Barney's dear mother," she said. And in a voice soft, rich and full of melody, and with perfect reproduction of the quaint old-fashioned cadences and quavers, she sang the Highland lament, "O'er the Moor."
"O'er the moor I wander lonely, Ochon-a-rie, my heart is sore;
Where are all the joys I cherished?
With my darling they have perished, And they will return no more.
"I loved thee first, I loved thee only, Ochon-a-rie, my heart is sore;
I loved thee from the day I met thee.
What care I though all forget thee?
I will love thee evermore."
And then, before anyone could utter a word of protest, she said, "You never heard this, I think, Barney. I'll sing it for you."
And in a low, soft voice, thrilling with pathetic feeling, she sang the quaint little song that described so fittingly her own experience, "My Heart's Rest."
"I had wandered far, and the wind was cold, And the sharp thorns clutched, and the day was old, When the Master came to close His fold And saw that one had strayed.
"Wild paths I fled, and the wind grew chill, And the sharp rocks cut, and the day waned, till The Master's voice searched vale and hill:
I heard and fled afraid.
"Dread steeps I climbed, and the wind wailed on.
