For more than a year now it had been Isla’s custom to meet the postman for the purpose of intercepting any letters which it might not be wise to let her father see. In this simple act a great part of the tragedy of Achree may be apprehended. For even such innocent deception was foreign to the soul and heart of Isla Mackinnon, which was as clear and true as the waters of her own loch. She saw the fat, white pony presently, standing before the dry-stone dyke that shut in the garden of Darrach farm-house from the road, and she quickened her steps in order that she might reach it before he started out again, and might thus save him another stop on the steep ascent. That act was natural to her, if you like; for if at any time by her thought or speech or act she could help another, then she was happy indeed. But David of the grim face and the silent tongue had got into the gig again, and the fat pony had ambled off before she could stop him. Presently they met where a little water-course merrily crossed the gravelly road, seeking its way to the Glenogle burn. "Good-morning, David. I hope you are quite well. You had letters for Mrs. Maclure. Surely you are earlier than usual." "It wass only a post-cairt from her niece, Jeanie Maclure, from the school at Govan sayin’ she would come for the week-end maype," answered David, as if the matter were of moment to the whole glen. "Yes--there pe lots an’ lots of letters. I hope yourself an’ the General are fery well this mornin’." "Thank you, we are," said Isla as she leaned against the shaft of the old cart, stroking the fat pony’s yellow eldes, her eyes a little more bright and eager than usual. David fingered the letters with outward and visible clumsiness, but he was most careful with them, and in all the years of his service he had never made a mistake with one or failed to deliver it to its proper recipient. "Thank you, David; this is all I want," said Isla as her fingers closed over the thick letter enclosed in its foreign envelope. "Take the rest up to Achree. My father will be waiting for them." "Yes, Miss Isla. That I will do, and hope it will pe good news from Maister Malcolm in foreign parts, an’ that he will pe fery well." "Thank you, David. He is sure to be well," said Isla, trying to speak lightly, but her fingers were nervously closing over the letter, and into her eyes there crept a strange shadow. She had sometimes said that she had the gift of second sight which was so common among the Mackinnons. Certainly she knew before she opened that letter, about a hundred yards lower down the road, that it contained bad news. It was too thick to be of no consequence, for her brother Malcolm was no great letterwriter when times were easy and his credit good.