Then in a few words he made her acquainted with the tragedy of the morning. As she listened, full of grief and sympathy, she, unconsciously to herself, watched her son keenly. She saw that he was moved far beyond his wont, that his voice, when he spoke of Isla Mackinnon, vibrated with an entirely new note. And she wondered, and her desire to see the girl was quickened. "She is the most desolate creature on God’s earth, mother, and if only I could wrap you up in my arms and carry you to Creagh you could heal her with a touch, as you have so often healed your other children." The expression "your other children" impressed her. Could it be possible that already Peter’s thoughts and longings had flown as far as the day when he should give another daughter to her heart? "You must bring her to me, dear. It is the only way." "Vivien is going up. Next to you, she will be the best to help her. It is a woman that she needs. All her life long apparently she has been fighting side by side with men." "Fighting!" repeated Mrs. Rosmead with a slight wonderment in her tone. "Well, you know, she has had to do everything for and to be everything to the old man." "But how? He has a dear son, Peter. You must not be unjust to young Mackinnon. Oh, I have heard that they say things here in the Glen about him, but when he comes here and sits by me, I believe none of them. He only needs a little guiding, and I think I have gathered from him that his sister has been a little hard on him at times." Rosmead with Isla’s most bitter cry in his ears, remained wholly unconvinced. "The ins and outs of the story we don’t know, mother. Perhaps we shall never know them. But of this I am sure--that Isla Mackinnon would be hard on no man without a cause. She is a splendid creature, and----" "Peter, come here." The sweet voice was peremptory, the swift, humorous black eyes were compelling. He came obediently, as of old, to her side. "Look straight at me--no, not like that!--very straight, Peter Rosmead. Is this to be the woman?" "Yes, mother," he answered, with the simplicity of a big child. "Please God, it is." "Then bring her to me quickly, my son, that I may get to know and love her--ay, and to learn whether she is worthy of Peter Rosmead. I have never yet seen the woman who is." Peter laughed, in no way uplifted by her loving pride. His nature indeed was singularly unspoiled. "It can’t be done in such a desperate hurry. She is cold and fine, and, like her own hills, she is difficult of approach. I shall have to walk warily and win her slowly. But win her I shall or go unmarried to my grave." Thus did Peter Rosmead quite quietly dispose of the biggest thing that had come into his life. And his mother, watching the firm set of his square chin, the invincible light in his eyes, gloried in his strength, and had not the smallest doubt that he would attain the desire of his heart.