He smiled and patted her cheek. He was an old man, now in his seventy-fifth year. He had been so long on foreign service that he had not married till late in life, and he had then made a marriage which had been the one mistake of his life, and into which he had been led by the softness of his own heart. Yet in battle, and in the affairs of men, he had been a terrific person, to be avoided by those who had offended him. The fruits of that marriage, unfortunately, had come out in the son and heir in whose veins ran the wild blood of the woman who had broken Mackinnon’s heart. There was no fight in the General now. He was a broken old man--very gentle, not altogether comprehending, a mere cypher in his own house, though his honour and his prestige were more jealously guarded by his household than they had ever been when he could guard them himself. His health was frail, but he suffered apparently from no disease. The doctor from Comrie who paid a weekly visit often assured Isla that, with care, there was no reason why her father should not live for other ten years. Only he mustn’t have any shock. He so often insisted upon this that Isla would ask herself after he had gone how, as circumstances were with them now, shock could be avoided. Apprehension was in the very air, and when Malcolm came home shock would most certainly be the order of the day. "Where have you been, Isla?" "Down to Lochearn, and I stopped at Darrach to speak to Eppie. You know how her tongue wags. Sit down, dear, and let me tell you something. Have you had any interesting letters?" "I don’t know," he said vaguely. "I looked at some of them. There is one from Cattanach, but I don’t understand it. You’ll explain it to me, Isla, and write what is necessary." Cattanach was the family lawyer, the head of a big legal firm in Glasgow that had administered the affairs of Achree for many years. Isla seized upon his letter jealously, and read it even with a feeling of foreboding. But as her eyes quickly covered the typewritten words, lo! a great relief was hers. The thing she had dreaded now manifested itself as a blessing--perhaps even as a way out. "Father, have you read this letter?" she asked, drawing her chair to his side and still holding it in her hand. "I read it--yes, but I don’t think I understand. He says something about strange folks coming to Achree. You can write to him, Isla, and tell him that we are not in a position to entertain, as we used to be. We have not the folk about us to make guests comfortable--nor perhaps have we the heart." "No, no; but that is not quite what he means, darling," said Isla eagerly. "Let me read it over to you quite slowly, then perhaps you will understand." "ST. VINCENT PLACE, "GLASGOW, March. "DEAR GENERAL MACKINNON,--I hardly like to approach you on the subject of this letter, but a client of mine is so insistent that I don’t seem to have any alternative.