Was any pang of disappointment hers? To every mother the moment when her son takes another woman to his heart is one of supreme pain. This is as inevitable as the law of life. But Mrs. Rosmead desired her son to marry, and she had kept him at her side a long time. "So Vivien will go up? Is she getting ready now?" "I think so." "Well, bring my writing-block and pencil, and I will write a message for Miss Mackinnon." He obeyed her, but she did not show him what she wrote. Nor was he curious to see it. He had never in all his life known her to do the wrong thing or speak the wrong word. She was a woman in whom grace was developed to a very high degree. Vivien came in presently, her slender, graceful figure enveloped in its capacious coat of Harris tweed, and a small neat toque of green velvet crowning her beautiful head. "Peter has been telling you, mother. Do you think it is the right thing for me to do--to go to Creagh, I mean? I confess to a little hesitation. I am so afraid of intruding on her. Even the pride of old Virginia must pale before that of Glenogle." "Your heart will dictate the fitting word, my child. Give this to the poor girl, and if she will come to us here to rest awhile in the house where she was born we shall try not to make her feel that we have taken her home from her." Rosmead tucked his sister in, and, just as the horse was about to start, he spoke again. "You won’t be discouraged if it is a little difficult at first, Vivien? Try to think only of her desperate need." "Poor old Peter," she said whimsically. "I never saw him so much in earnest about anything. I do believe he would like nothing better than to be going back himself." Their eyes met in a smile, and she drove off, waving her hand. He drifted about the place all the afternoon, conscious of a growing restlessness that he could not shake off, his thoughts all the while following Vivien to the Moor of Creagh. When she arrived at the small plain house, which she now saw for the first time, a vast pity filled her heart. Creagh had beautiful surroundings, but nothing could make it a home. It was bare and uninviting--a mere shelter; and Vivien, who loved beautiful places, and who had the whole art of the Home Beautiful at her finger-ends, wondered how Isla could have borne to exchange the old-world charm of Achree for this. She had not heard the whole story of the transaction. Rosmead had preserved a singular reticence regarding the terms of his tenancy of Achree, and Vivien merely thought that the Mackinnons either wanted the money badly or had some other family reason for letting their ancestral home. The blinds were all down, but, as she directed the man to stop outside the gate, she could see the open door at the end of the short avenue. "Wait here, Farquhar. I will not disturb them by driving up to the door."