"My boy, my poor boy, is this indeed so? How great is your sorrow and suffering compared with mine! Bah! let the estate go. I could feel happy now without it could I but believe that you would forget the heartless minx who has dared to gain your love then spurn it. You _will_ forget her?" "Never, father, never; that is impossible. Sword in hand on the battle-deck I shall seek surcease of sorrow, but forget little Gerty Keane, never, never, never!" The young man covered his face with his hands, and his form heaved with suppressed emotion, and even the kindly-hearted Richards could but look on in silence. Not a word of consolation could he adduce that had the power to assuage grief so deep as this. No one spoke for many minutes--sorrow is oftentimes too deep for words--but higher and higher in the calm, still gloaming rose the blackbird's notes of love, sounding half hysterical in the very fulness of their happiness and joy. General Mackenzie rose slowly from his chair, and approaching his son placed a kindly hand on his shoulder. "Dear Jack," he said slowly, "we each have something left us, a name that has never yet been tarnished; our clansmen have ever been found in the battle's van, or 'In death laid low, Their backs to the field, their feet to the foe.' We have that name, Jack boy; we have that fame. We have our unsullied swords. Jack lad, we _shall_ forget." "Father, we shall try." And hand met hand as eye met eye. The two had signed a compact, and well they knew what that compact was. * * * * * Jack Mackenzie sat alone in his bedroom that night long after his father and every guest had retired. The casement window was wide open, so that the sweet breath of the June roses could steal in, and with it the weird tremolo of a nightingale singing its love-lay in an adjoining copse. The moonlight was everywhere, bathing the flower-beds, spiritualizing the trees, lying on the grass like snow, and casting deep shadows from the quaint figures of many a statue, and a deeper shadow still from the mossy dial-stone. So intent was Jack in his admiration of the solemn beauty of the scene, that he saw not his chamber door slowly opening, nor noted the figure robed from head to feet in white that entered and glided towards him. Was it a spirit? If so, it was a very beautiful one. The face was very white in the moonbeams, the eyes very sad and dark, and darker still the wealth of waving hair that floated over the shoulders. "Jack!" Jack started now, and looked quickly round. Then a happy smile spread over his face as he arose and led his sister to a seat by his side. "So like old, old times, Flora," he said. "So like old, old times, Jack," said she. He wrapped her knees in a great old Grant-tartan plaid. "I knew you were still up, and that you were not happy, so I came to you. But, Jack--" "Yes, dear." "Smoke." "May I?" "You must." "Still more like olden times, Flora."