But he said nothing of his thoughts.

He hugged them, as it were, to himself, and toyed with them as though they were jewels,--precious jewels selected specially to be set in a crown of inestimable worth.
Meanwhile his health kept fairly equable, though he was well aware within his own consciousness that he did not get stronger.

But he was strong enough to be merry at times--and his kindly temper and cheery conversation made him a great favourite with the Weircombe folk, who were never tired of "looking in" as they termed it, on Mary, and "'avin' a bit of a jaw with old David." Sociable evenings they had too, during that winter--evenings when Angus Reay came in to tea and stayed to supper, and after supper entertained them by singing in a deep baritone voice as soft as honey, the old Scotch songs now so hopelessly "out of fashion"-- such as "My Nannie O"-- "Ae fond kiss"-- and "Highland Mary," in which last exquisite ballad he was always at his best.

And Mary sang also, accompanying herself on a quaint old Hungarian zither, which she said had been left with her father as guarantee for ten shillings which he had lent to a street musician wandering about Barnstaple.

The street musician disappeared and the ten shillings were never returned, so Mary took possession of the zither, and with the aid of a cheap instruction book, managed to learn enough of its somewhat puzzling technique to accompany her own voice with a few full, rich, plaintive chords.