"I write on behalf of Mr. Hylton Rosmead, an American gentleman who is looking for a place in your neighbourhood to rent for the season. He wants it for six months at least--from Easter to October, with the option of stopping on if agreeable to both parties. "It seems odd that, with the whole of Scotland to choose from, he and his family should hit upon Achree which, as I told him, is not in the market. They saw it in course of a motor tour last autumn, and were so struck with it, it seems, that it is the only place they would have in the whole of Scotland. "I may say two things that may help you to a decision. They are Americans of the best type, and he would pay a fancy price for the place. "I have no alternative but to lay the offer before you and may I remind you that the letting of places to people of this type has become so common among the old families that it is the exception not to let them at some time or other. "I shall be glad to hear from you at your very earliest convenience as Mr. Rosmead is anxious to get settled. Hoping you feel yourself better with the approach of spring, and that Miss Mackinnon is quite well,--I am, dear General, yours faithfully, "ALEXANDER CATTANACH." Long before Isla had reached the close of this letter the old man’s attention had wandered and, though his eyes had not fixed themselves on the paper again, Isla saw that he was not in the smallest degree either interested or comprehending. "You don’t understand, dear, that some one wants to take Achree from us for a few months and to pay a high rent--a very high rent--for it. Why shouldn’t we let it? Look how often Uncle Tom has let Barras. He has told us he couldn’t get on without letting it." "Oh, no, of course not. Read this account of affairs in Rhodesia, Isla. It’s the aftermath of the war. Heavens, we’ll never get to the end of that precious muddle! I said so at the time." Isla laid down the letter quietly, intending to return to it later. It was part of the difficulty of her life, part of the hopelessness of the present acuter stage in it, that she could not get her father to comprehend facts and details which were of the utmost importance. Either he could not or he would not understand--there were times when she was at a loss to say which. As she laid Cattanach’s letter down she drew her brother’s from the bosom of her blouse. "Did you remember that this is mail-day, father? You know you can’t read Malcolm’s scrawl, which seems to grow more illegible with every letter. Shall I read it out to you?" "No. Tell me what he says. His letters weary me. They are full of words I don’t understand and have no use for," he said with a sudden touch of querulousness. "I can’t understand why a boy that has been at Glenalmond and at Sandhurst wants to fill his letters with unintelligible jargon. How is he?" "He’s quite well. He is coming home, father. He will be here very shortly."