Malcolm Mackinnon was not wholly bad. Nay, at that very time he was honestly striving to do his duty and to establish himself in the esteem of those whose esteem he valued. But among these he did not include his dependants. Towards them he was a bit of a martinet, as his mother--a creature from the nether world dressed in a little brief authority--had been before him. Isla knew nothing about her mother except that she had been very pretty and that she had died young. Had she known more she would have understood that alien and lawless blood run in Malcolm’s veins. But the old General had never spoken of the one irretrievable mistake of his life--a mistake which had left his heart seared and made his life desolate in the summer of his days. Happily perhaps for Isla the brief tragedy had been enacted in India, and General Mackinnon’s wife had never beheld the place of her husband’s birth and true affection. "I am sure Mr. Cattanach can’t approve of your turning out the folk like that. And what will a few shillings or pounds a year more do for you? It will make so little difference that, looking at it even from the sordid standpoint, it isn’t worth while." Isla spoke thus because she was intensely of opinion that Malcolm had no feelings, and that this was the only appeal that would strike home. He, knowing perfectly well how she regarded him, was pleased to play upon her erroneous conceptions. "It’s worth while, my dear," he said, with his ready and, to her, most aggravating smile, "because these Highland folk want waking up. They are like the Irish--lazy, easy-going, and without independence. You should hear George Larmer on the state of things on his Wicklow place. He says it is due partly to the rain and partly to the whisky, but there is not a man of them who will do a decent day’s work." "We get rain enough here," said Isla with a sigh, for it had been a very wet summer, and the poor harvest was to be very late. "But our people don’t drink whisky. Even Donald is a teetotaller and wears a blue ribbon in his buttonhole." "Which that shrew of his pinned on, doubtless. Poor devil!--I’m sorry for Donald if that’s the set of it, and I’ll stand him a drink next time I meet him at a handy place." "Then, what are you going to do about the Maclures? I wish you would be serious for just a minute, Malcolm. I really want to know what’s in store for them. I am almost afraid to go past the door of Darrach now or to meet Eppie. She’s wearing herself to a shadow over it all." "There you are, Isla--you’ve ruined them, neck and crop, by listening to their grumblings and pandering to their lack of independence! Nobody knows just how much money there is in Glenogle--or in any of the glens, for that matter. It strikes me there are a good many fat stocking-feet hidden among the thatch." "Oh, nonsense, Malcolm! Nobody does that now. They all use the bank when they have anything to put away, but I don’t think that is often the case."