"You’ll never be able to stick it, Isla," he said in his most aggressive tones. "There isn’t room in it to swing a cat." The old man was in good form. The coming of his son seemed to awaken him for a little space to a fresh interest in life. "Was there anything brought up from Achree cellar, Diarmid?" he asked as the old servant passed the plates. "Yes, sir," answered Diarmid, not daring to say how very low the cellar at Achree had fallen and how its precious store had been diminished without the smallest hope of replenishment. They were very abstemious folks at Achree, and the General, being forbidden all stimulants except a little whisky when he needed it, had hitherto asked no questions. "A bottle of Pommery, then, to drink Mr. Malcolm’s health," he said, with the air of old times, when there had been big parties round the table at Achree and when the wine had flowed at his bidding. Diarmid looked desperately--imploringly at his young mistress, who rose, smiling slightly. The Pommery had long since disappeared; but, in anticipation of this reunion, she had laid in one bottle of champagne in order that her father might not be disappointed. So it was brought and duly drawn by Diarmid, who filled the glasses and then helped his master to his feet. "Welcome home, my son. Long life, good health, and honourable prosperity to you and to Achree. God bless you and make you a blessing. Isla, my dear, your best health." Isla’s eyes suddenly swam in tears, and Malcolm had the good feeling to bend his head in honest shame. The General did little more than taste from his glass and then set it down with a little sigh of disappointment. "It is bad for good wine to be shifted," he said. "Never mind, Malcolm. When we go back to Achree you shall have your pick of the cellar." The wine was good. The change was in his palate, which had lost its verve. He was very tired after dinner, and his rambling thoughts could not be kept in check. He babbled a good deal of old days, for which indeed Isla was thankful, since it kept him from asking questions about the present ones. She had dreaded what might happen on the night of the home-coming, but she now clearly saw that her father was less and less likely to disturb himself about any untoward happenings. He accepted everything--a circumstance which certainly considerably relieved the strain. "He looks jolly bad, poor old chap," said Malcolm, when Isla came down about ten o’clock from seeing him safely in bed. "He can’t last long. It was a pity that you didn’t let him see it out at Achree." "He has not got any worse in the last six months that I can see. Of course the excitement to-night wore him out. He will be brighter in the morning." "I still think it was a beastly shame to bring him up here. There isn’t even decent comfort. This is the only room worth mentioning." "Well, he has it. He is quite comfortable," said Isla, stoutly. "We must take what is left."