Thus did Isla write to Rosmead, and the few simple words meant more from her than whole pages of words from most women. She did not possess the gift of expression, but could only write of real things, and when these were done with the letter came to an end:-- "ACHREE, _Saturday night_. "DEAR MR. ROSMEAD,--I am writing to say that I hope--that we all hope--that you will be able to spare the time to come out to Lochearnhead on Monday to attend my father’s funeral. "It is arranged for twelve o’clock from here, and will arrive at Balquhidder Kirkyard at half-past one, which suits the trains from both the north and the south. "Perhaps you do not know the customs of our country, but it would please me if you would take one of the cords of the coffin as they lower it into the grave. These are taken by relatives and friends only, and, God knows, you have been a friend. It is arranged that if you are there some one will give you your place. "My uncle, Sir Thomas Mackinnon, arrived from London to-day. He is my father’s only living relative. "Perhaps you will find it convenient either to come by the train or to drive in your motor straight to Balquhidder, in which case I should not see you. "Please to tell your mother that by Thursday of this week I shall have gone back to Creagh or shall have gone away somewhere else. What I really mean to say is that Achree will be ready for her return. I cannot say more. "I am, sincerely yours, "ISLA MACKINNON." Rosmead forgot all about his shaving-water until it grew cold, and he had to ring for more. He had longed with a great longing to go out to the burying of Mackinnon, but he had not contemplated doing so without invitation. And, lo! the invitation had come from Isla herself, couched in warm, friendly terms which no man--least of all Rosmead--could resist. There was a glow at his heart as he stood before the mirror, attending to the duties of his toilet, noticing for the first time, with a kind of silent rage, the lines on his face and the evidences of middle-age beginning to creep about his mouth and temples. He wanted to be for ever young for her dear sake. She had, in the midst of her forlorn grief, taken time and thought to write to him to offer him what he understood was a family privilege, and he would go--oh, yes, there was no car fast enough to take him--right to her door, to her very feet! Away with the train or car that would convey him only to Balquhidder when Isla had expressed even the faintest desire to see him! It would be their last meeting until he could return from America, for on Thursday he must set out upon the journey which never in all his life had he been so loth to take.