The piper stopped playing to listen to what was going forward but the young men urged him to proceed, and again filled his glass.
"Don't drink any more, Mike," said Leonard, "but step aside with me.
I've something to say to you--something about your daughter." "My daughter!" exclaimed the piper, in a half-angry, half-sorrowful voice, while a slight moisture forced itself through his orbless lids.
"I don't want to hear anything about her, except that she is dead.

She has deserted me, and disgraced herself." "You are mistaken," rejoined Leonard; "and if you will come with me, I will explain the truth to you." "I will listen to no explanation," rejoined the piper, furiously, "she has given me pain enough already.

I'm engaged with this jovial company.
Fill my glass, my masters--there, fill it again," he added, draining it eagerly, and with the evident wish to drown all thought.

"There, now you shall have such a tune, as was never listened to by mortal ears." A loud laugh from the young men followed this proposition, and the piper played away so furiously, that it added to their merriment.

Touched with compassion, Leonard walked aside, hoping, when the party broke up, to be able to have a word with the poor man.