"DEAR NANCE,--It’s ages since onybody has heard from you, but I must write, for things are that queer here that you would hardly ken the Glen. I suppose you have heard about the American folk in Achree. There’s naething the matter with them, and some of us wish that they were there for good and that we had no other Laird. We were to leave at Martinmas, but Donald has gotten round the Laird to let him stop another year at a higher rent. That will give us time to look about. But, as I said to Miss Isla, my man will never leave Darrach and live. He’ll be found in the Loch afore the day comes, or else dee of a broken hert in the bed where he was born. Miss Isla has gone away from the Glen, but maybe you have seen her. She seemed to forget all about us lately, but the poor lassie’s head must be near turned with all the trouble of Achree. They’re saying in the Glen that her and the Laird had words before she left and even that he doesn’t know now where she is. Some say she has gone away to foreign parts to Lady Mackinnon, and then, again, there’s some say naebody kens where she is. It’s a terible business anyway, and if you have seen or heard tell of her I wish you would write and let us know, for there’s a heap of folk in the glens that are not easy in their minds about it. They’re saying, to, that the Laird is after one of the Miss Rosmeads--the one that divorced her man in America, but that there’s somebody else has a grip of him. There was a woman stopping at the Strathyre Hotel. William Thorn that is the Boots there told Donald about her the other day. And it seems that she talked a lot about the Laird and about what would happen if he sought to marry Mrs. Rodney Payne. Then, quite suddenly--I believe it was the very night before Miss Isla went away--he went to Strathyre and saw her. They went out for a walk together, and the next morning she left with the train. Sic ongauns, Nance--very different from the auld days at Achree when we wass all happy together! Write soon to your auld neibour and say what you think about all this, and mind you tell me if you’ve see Miss Isla. That’s the chief thing. Only don’t send a postcard, Nance, for David Bain reads every wan of them and the Glen hass all the news afore a body gets it themselves. Love from your auld neibour, "ELSPETH MACLURE". Isla laid down the closely-written sheet, and a little quiver ran across her face. Agnes Fraser sat forward, her questioning eyes very eager and bright. "What am I to say, then, Miss Isla?" "Say, Agnes, that you have seen me and that I am quite well. But I forbid you to give any particulars. Do you understand?"