That spring, as soon as the frost was out of the ground, Angus did his promised work for Faith Winton, while a couple of carpenters ran up a cottage, stable and outbuilding. With this extra work, Angus was more than busy. The Frenches did nothing to help. They seemed to regard the girl's actions as folly of which the sooner she was cured the better.

"I am getting a companion, an old friend of mine," Faith told Angus one day as the cottage neared completion. "It may be cowardly, but I don't want to live here alone."

"Of course it would be lonesome," he agreed. "It will be nice for you to have a girl friend."

She stared at him for a moment and laughed. "Oh, very nice. We'll move in some time next week."

A week passed and another, and Angus, though he had heard that the new ranch was occupied, had had no opportunity to visit it. Then one evening he saddled Chief and rode over.

He saw smoke rising from the chimney, and when he dismounted and ascended the steps he heard a strange swishing and thumping, accompanied by a melancholy moaning which put him in mind of a dog scratching a sore ear. Wondering what on earth the racket was about, he knocked.

The noise ceased, heavy footsteps utterly unlike Faith Winton's crossed the floor, the door opened and a strange lady confronted him. She was short, but extremely broad of beam. Her hair, streaked with gray, had once been a fiery red. She had keen, aggressive blue eyes, a short, turned-up nose, and a wide mouth with perfect white teeth. Her sleeves were rolled above her elbows, showing a pair of solid, red, freckled forearms, and in one hand she carried a mop. Amazed at this apparition, Angus gaped at her.

"Well," said the lady in accents which left no doubt of her nationality, "well, misther man, an' phwat will yez be wantin'?"

"Is Miss Winton at home?" Angus asked.

"She is nat."

"She's living here now, isn't she?"

"She is."

"Which way has she gone?"

"I dunno."

"Then I'll wait," Angus decided.

"Outside!" the lady also decided.

Bang! The door shut in Angus' face. Immediately the thump and swish began again, though the moaning obligato did not. Angus sat down on the steps and filled his pipe, but found he had no matches. For some moments he sat there, sucking the cold stem and wondering where the deuce Faith Winton had picked up this woman. No doubt she and her girl friend had gone for a walk. Well, he might as well be doing something.

He went around to the back of the house where he had hauled a pile of wood, picked up an old ax and began to split. Once the lady of the mop came to the back door and took a long look at him. By and by, tiring of splitting and wanting a smoke very badly, he put on his coat and went to the door to request a match. The lady of the mop met him on the threshold.

"Could you give me—" he began, but she cut him short.

"I could nat," she said grimly. "Who asked ye to do ut? On yer way!"

"But—"

"They's nawthin' comin' to ye," the lady asserted. "Ut's no handout yez'll get here."

"But I don't want—"

"Yez want coin, do yez? Divil th' cint will yez get!"

"No, no," Angus protested, "you're all wrong. I want—"

"An' do I care phwat yez want, ye black-avised bo?" the lady shouted in a tops'l-yard-ahoy bellow. "Beggars on harrseback I've heerd iv, but ye're the first I've seen. On yer way; or th' flat iv me hand and th' toe iv me boot is phwat ye'll dhraw, for all the bigness iv ye, ye long, lazy, herrin'—bel—"

"Give me a match!" Angus roared through this wealth of personal description, despairing of making his want known otherwise. "I want a match, that's all."

"A match?" the lady exclaimed.

"Sure, to light my pipe with," Angus told her. "I'm not a hobo. I'm working the place for Miss Winton."

"And why couldn't ye say so before?" she demanded, frowning at him.

"Because you wouldn't give me a chance. You wouldn't let me get in a word edgeways."

"God save us all, an' maybe I wouldn't then," she admitted. "Is Mackay th' name iv ye? Come in an' sit down. A match, is ut? Here ye are, then."

Angus sat down and lit his pipe, while she stared at him.

"Faix, then, I wouldn't have knowed ye at all, at all," she said.

"Well, you never saw me before."

"Be description, I mane. She said—"

"Miss Winton?"

"Who else? Yez do be big enough, but homelier than she said."

"Did she say I was homely?"

"Did I say so?" the lady returned, and her blue eyes twinkled.

"Not exactly. But—"

"Then don't be puttin' words into a woman's mouth, for God knows they's no need iv ut," she told him. "An' so ye do be th' Mackay lad I've been hearin' iv, that found her whin she was a little, lost wan, an' shooted that murtherin' divil iv a grizzly bear!"

Angus acknowledged his identity and diffidently inquired the lady's name.

"Me name, is ut? They's times whin I have to stop an' think. Mary Kelly I was born, an' me first was Tim Phelan. A slip iv a gyurl I was then, an' little more when they waked him. Dhrowned he was, but sure wather was always fatal to his fam'ly, an' maybe it was all for the best, as Father Paul said whin he married me to Dan Shaughnessy after a dacint year. But he died himself, the holy man, before Dan fell off the roof, an' it was Father Kerrigan said the words over me an' Pether Finucane. It was Dinney Foley brought me th' news iv th' premachure blast that tuk Pether, an' I married him. Dinny was me last. So me name's Mrs. Foley."

"And is Mr. Foley here on the ranch?" Angus asked.

"I hope not," Mrs. Foley returned with apprehension. "Givin' him th' best iv ut, he's wid th' blessid saints. A voylent man was poor Dinney, as broad as ye, but not so high, an' a lion wid a muckstick. But phwat's a muckstick to knives? Sure thim dirty dagoes is born wid thim in their hands. Though he stretched thim right an' left wid th' shovel, he could not gyard his back. So whin I buried him I quit. No, I've had no luck at all keepin' men." And Mrs. Foley sighed, pursed up her lips and shook her head at Angus.

"You do seem to have been out of luck," Angus sympathized gravely. "Have you known Miss Winton long."

"As long as she is. I nursed her wid me own b'y that died."

"And have you known this girl friend of hers, long, too?"

"Phwat gyurl friend?"

"The one who is here with her—her companion."

"I'm her," Mrs. Foley returned. "Where do ye get this gyurl friend thing, anyway?"

But Angus could not tell. He had put his own construction on Faith Winton's words. At any rate Mrs. Foley seemed a capable companion.

"Well, I hope you'll like it here," he said. "It may be a little lonely, but there's nothing to be afraid of. Bears seldom come down on the benchlands now, and there are no hoboes worse than I am."

"Afraid, is ut?" Mrs. Foley snorted. "An' wud I that has lived wid four men be afraid iv a bear? I am not even afeard iv a mouse. Anyways, for bears an' bos they's a dog."

"I thought I heard him whining when I came to the front door."

"Whining?" Mrs. Foley ejaculated.

"Well, sort of moaning as if he was scratching a sore ear. And then he howled."

"Howled!" Mrs. Foley cried. "Th' nerve iv ye!"

"What's the matter?" Angus asked. "It sounded like a lonesome pup to me."

"Did ut, indade!" snorted Mrs. Foley. "Ye big, on-mannerly blackgyard, that was me, singin'!"

"Singing?" Angus gasped.

"Singin'," Mrs. Foley repeated firmly. "An' a sweet song, too, a rale Irish song. Color blind in th' ears, ye are, ye long lummix! May th' divil—But phwat's the use? Th' ign'rance iv ye is curse enough!"

"What's the matter, Mary?" Faith Winton's voice asked from the door. "You're not quarrelling with Angus Mackay, I hope."

"I wud not lower mesilf!" Mrs. Foley replied loftily, "though he said me singin' was like the howlin's iv a purp."

"No, no," Angus protested, "I didn't mean that. I heard your singing, too, and it was fine."

"Yez may be a willin' liar, but yer work is coorse," Mrs. Foley informed him. "Well, I do not set up f'r to be wan iv thim divas. I can raise th' keen fine over a corpse, but me singin' is privut an' so intended. So I forgive ye, young man, more be token I can see it's herself thinks it's a joke on the old gyurl. For shame, Miss Faith! An' me that's crooned ye in yer cradle many's the long night!"

But there was a twinkle in Mrs. Foley's blue eyes, and Angus began to suspect that her bark was much worse than her bite.

"Mary was my nurse," Faith told him when they were seated in the living room. "She really thinks the world of me, spoils me—and bullies me. But what do you think of my humble home? You haven't seen it since it was finished."

Angus approved the room and its furnishings. There was space to move, and a fireplace. The chairs were comfortable and strong; there was a spacious couch, a well-filled bookcase, a piano and a banjo case.

"I like it," he said. "It's not cluttered up with a lot of junk. Everything looks as if it could be used. That's what I like. Is that a banjo and do you play it?"

"Yes, I play it."

"I like a banjo better than a piano."

"You Philistine! Why?"

"Perhaps because I'm a Philistine. I don't know just why. All I know is that I do like it better. A piano is sort of machine-made music to me; but with a banjo the player seems to be making the music himself, as if he was singing."

"You mean there is more personal expression."

"Maybe. I don't know anything about music. But a banjo seems to talk. It's the thing for the tunes that everybody knows."

"You and Kipling agree, then. You know his 'Song of the Banjo':

"Yes, that's the idea. He's right enough there."

"And how about:

she asked curiously.

"The only music to fight with and to die to is the pipes," Angus said.

"The pipes? You mean the bagpipes."

"Of course."

"Some people," Faith laughed, "would say that death would be a blessed relief from the sound of them."

Angus smiled grimly. "I know. There are plenty of jokes about the pipes. But they are no joke to the men who meet the men played into battle to the skirl of them."

"I believe you are right in that," Faith admitted. "I haven't a drop of Scotch blood, so far as I know. But I have heard a pipe band playing 'Lochaber No More' behind a gun carriage which bore a dead soldier; and I have seen the Highland regiments march past the colors at a review, to 'Glendarual' and 'Cock o' the North,' and heaven knows what gatherings and pibrochs, and I have stood up on my toes and my back hair has felt crinkly. I own up to it. But I love the banjo. It's a little sister of the lonesome."

She took the instrument, a beautiful concert model, from its case, keyed it for a moment and spoke through low, rippling chords.

"Sometimes at night I pick it by the hour—oh, very softly, so as not to disturb anybody—not any particular tune—just odds and ends, anything—and my thoughts go away off wool gathering and I am quite happy. Can you understand such foolishness?"

"Yes," Angus replied seriously. "I can't play anything, or sing, but there are times when I want to—if you can understand that."

She nodded, her fingers brushing the strings. "Yes, I know. Often the person who knows least about music loves it best—down in his soul."

"Play something," Angus urged.

And so Faith Winton played. At first she played consciously; but as the daylight faded and the twilight came she let the strings talk. Bits of old half-forgotten melodies rippled from her fingers, changing, shifting, mingling and merging, now familiar or half familiar and then quite strange; but always tugging, tugging at the heartstrings, as if in the gut and parchment there dwelt a wayward, whimsical soul, half-sad and half-merry, whimpering and chuckling in the growing darkness. Suddenly the music swept into a rolling, thunderous march, shifted to a rollicking Irish jig, and stopped abruptly with a crash of chords and a ringing of gut and iron.

"Don't stop," Angus said.

"But I've played myself out—for this time. It's dark—quite dark—and I didn't notice. I must get a light."

"I must go. I have never heard playing like that—never. I'll take much of it home with me."

"Come and get more any time," she laughed. "When shall I see you again?"

"To-morrow or next day. There are several things to be done here. If I can't come myself, I'll send Gus."

"Try to come yourself," said Faith Winton.

Angus, as he rode homeward, found himself dwelling on these words.