"They like them not that pad, sir. They are fery civil-spoken and kind, forpy peing likely to spend a heap of money. They are fery anxious that whoefer hass things to sell in the Glen shall pring them to Achree. There are not many like that come now to the Glen, Maister Malcolm. The most of them do nothing put send for big boxes to come from the store. They will pe well likit, I’m thinking." "Oh, yes, it sounds idyllic," said Malcolm drily, the meaning of which adjective Jamie did not grasp. "It seems a shame to pass by the old place. I’m down to-morrow if I’m a living man, Americans or no Americans," said Malcolm to Isla. "Has he any women-folk?" "I’ll tell you about them later," she answered, and her voice shook a little, for she too felt a qualm as they passed by the gate and the little lodge. It was a long cold climb to the Moor of Creagh, and she was heartily sick of it before they drew up at the unpretentious white gate from which a straight, short drive led up to the house. Diarmid was in the porch to meet and welcome them, and, though there was an odd shrinking in the old man’s eyes as they travelled with a look of anxious reproach to the young Laird’s face, Malcolm himself seemed quite unaware of it. He grasped the old man’s hand cordially, asked for his welfare, and then passed in to where the old General, holding himself rather erect and proudly, though leaning hard on his stick, was peering through the dim light for sight of his son. There can be no man who is wholly bad, and the sight of big father--that pathetic and yet noble figure, a brave soldier who had spent himself for his country, shook Malcolm Mackinnon as his sister’s appealing eyes had altogether failed to do. He now realized that if his father was ever able to grasp the fact of his dismissal from the Army it would kill him. He should never know, Malcolm swore to himself, as he bent low and ashamed over the outstretched hand and saw the quiver of the thin, pale face. "How are you, sir?" faltered Malcolm. And Isla, seeing his expression and noting the tremor in his voice, placed that bit of genuine feeling to his credit and wiped something off the slate. "Glad to see you home, my boy, though this is a queer little house you are come to. Ask Isla about that. She’s the culprit, but it’s a very comfortable place, and I like it well. We’ll have some happy days here, my son. Welcome home." "Glad to see you well, father," answered Malcolm, though in truth he did not think the old man looked long for this world. Then there was a greeting of sheer affection for Isla, and a look passed between father and daughter which told of a most perfect understanding. Malcolm had a sniff of scorn for the cramped little house and, when presently, with the grime of his journey washed off and his dinner-jacket on, he came to the queer little room for the evening meal, he looked round rather grimly until his significant gaze rested on his sister’s face.