Rosmead was not surprised to hear it. Malcolm Mackinnon had paid many visits to Achree, where he had shown the very best and most lovable side of him. He had jested with the gay Sadie, had been serious and kindly and responsible when talking to Vivien, and had sat like an attentive son by Mrs. Rosmead’s invalid couch. To Rosmead himself he had been simply a good comrade, and, on the whole, the American had no fault to find with him. Yet, somehow, these words, falling from Vivien’s lips, disquieted him not a little. "I’m afraid there’s something behind it all. Probably Mackinnon has sowed his wild oats, and this is the aftermath. Anyway, the old man is dead, and she is in a dreadful state. Her eyes haunt me. It is a woman she needs--mothering, in fact, and if you could bring her right down here to mother it would be a Christian act. Where’s Sadie?" "Miss Drummond came to lunch and has taken her away to Balquhidder to show her Rob Roy’s grave. Then they are going to Garrion to tea. What a bright creature she is! She kept us laughing right through lunch." "I’m rather glad, on the whole, that Sadie is not about. Well, dear, while you are getting ready I will see mother. I took a message from her to Creagh. Would you like me to go up with you, to drive you and wait outside, perhaps?" "Just as you like. But perhaps, as you’ve only just come down, I had better go alone. We don’t want to overwhelm her with Rosmeads." He nodded understandingly, and they parted on the stairs, Rosmead proceeding up one of the winding ways to his mother’s room. They had not altered the interior of the old house in any way. They had only spent money to make it comfortable, covered bare stairs and passages with rich carpets of neutral tints, and gathered about them all the comforts and refinements which are at the command of wealth. Mrs. Rosmead occupied the General’s chamber, which had a large dressing-room adjoining, and from its quaint little windows she could see the Loch and the hills beyond. She was a gentle, frail old lady, very small and delicately built, but her sweet face in its frame of snow-white hair had great strength. It was from her undoubtedly that Rosmead had inherited his decision of character, his deeply-rooted principles, his inflexible will. He was very like her physically, and he worshipped her. Up till now no woman had ousted her from the shrine of his heart. The relation between them was indeed idyllic and did much to keep the softer side of Rosmead in the foreground. Her keen, fine black eyes, so like his own, lifted themselves inquiringly to his face as he entered. "Well, as you have taken such a long time to carry out my behest, I take it that you were well received, my son." "Yes, I was, but that is not what delayed me," he answered as he bent to kiss her.