"Mr Mackhai!" cried Max, in a choking voice, as he seized the hand extended to him.

"Hah! that is frank and natural, my lad. Thank you. Now, shall we forget the past?"

Max nodded, but he could not trust himself to speak, while Kenneth ran round to the other side of the bed.

"And he is not to think of going, father?" he cried.

"I don't say that, Ken," replied his father. "Under all the circumstances, I can readily believe that Max would prefer to return to town; but I expressly forbid his hurrying away. Oblige me, Max, by staying with Kenneth till next Thursday, when I shall return. It will be dull for him alone."

"Are you going away, father?"

"Yes; I start for Edinburgh at once, and as I shall not see you again, Max, I will say good-bye. You will be gone before I reach Dunroe in the evening."

He shook hands once more, and left the room, Max thoroughly grasping the gentlemanly feeling which had prompted him to behave with so much delicacy.

"There, Max, you will stay now?" cried Kenneth.

"Yes, I will stay now," he replied.

"Then that's all right. We'll have some fishing and shooting—for the last few times," he said to himself, as he turned away to see his father before he left the place.

Max rose and dressed as soon as he was alone, but he was not long in finding that he was not in a fit condition to take a journey; and during the rest of his stay at Dunroe there were no more pleasure-trips, for the zest for them was in the case of both lads gone.

And yet those last days were not unpleasant, for there was a peculiar anxiety on the part of both to make up for the past. Kenneth was eager in the extreme to render Max's last days there such as should give him agreeable memories of their intercourse. While, on the other side, Max felt deeply what Kenneth's position must be, and he too tried hard to soften the pain of his lot.

Max had had a business-like letter from his father, telling him that he had been compelled, by The Mackhai's failure to keep his engagements, to foreclose certain mortgages and take possession of the estates. Under these circumstances, he wished his son to remain there and supervise the proceedings of the bailiffs, writing to him in town every night as to how matters stood.

It was a cool, matter-of-fact, legal letter, written by a clerk, probably from dictation, and signed by the old lawyer. But at the bottom there was a postscript in his own crabbed hand, as follows:—

"You will be able to watch over all with more pleasure, when I tell you that Dunroe is yours. I mean it to be your estate, and you can see now why I sent you down there to learn how to be a Scottish gentleman."

Max flushed as he read this, and he exclaimed aloud—"A Scottish gentleman could not bear to be placed in such a position!" and he sat down and wrote at once to say that he had been seriously unwell, and must return to town on a certain day.

"Squeamish young donkey!" said the hard-griping old man of the world, when he received his son's letter. "Bad as his weak, sensitive mother. Know better some day. If I had been so particular, Dunroe would not be mine to leave."



CHAPTER THIRTY THREE.

A SAD PARTING.

"So you're off to-morrow, Max?" said Kenneth sadly.

"Yes. How beautiful everything looks, now I am going away!"

"Yes," said Kenneth, with a quaint glance first at the distant islands rising all lilac and gold from the sapphire sea; "how beautiful everything looks, now I am going away!"

"Oh, Ken!"

"And oh, Max! There, don't turn like that, old chap. It's the fortune of war, as they say. Good luck to you. I feel now as if I'd rather you had Dunroe than anybody else. I say, let's call Scoody, and get out the boat, and have one last sail together."

"Yes, do," cried Max eagerly.

"All right. I'll go and find Scoody. Get the lines. We may as well try for some mackerel as we go."

Kenneth ran out of the room, and Max went to the little study, got the lines, and then was about to follow his friend, when he recalled the fact that he had not been to see old Donald since he had been better.

So, going out into the courtyard, he made for the old man's quarters, knocked, was told to come in, and entered, to find the piper propped up in an easy-chair, and Long Shon and Tavish keeping him company.

The old man glared at him strangely, and grasped at something he had in his lap which emitted a feeble squeak, and Max saw that they were his pipes, about which his thin fingers played.

"I'm going away to-morrow, Donald," said Max, "and wanted to know how you were."

The old man neither moved nor spoke, but his deeply-sunken eyes seemed to burn, as he glared fiercely, and his breathing sounded deep and hoarse.

"I hope you are better?"

There was no reply.

"He is better, is he not, Tavish?"

The great forester gazed straight before him at the wall, but made no reply.

"What is the matter, Shon?" said Max uneasily.

Long Shon took a pinch of snuff, and gazed at the floor.

"Look here!" cried Max earnestly; "I wanted to thank you all for your kindness to me since I have been here, and I may not have another chance. Donald, Long Shon, Tavish—just a little remembrance, and thank you."

As he spoke, he slipped a sovereign into the hands of the two first named, and two into that of the forester. But, as if moved by the same idea, all three dashed the money at his feet, the gold coins jingling upon the stone floor.

Max's eyes dilated, and he gazed from one to the other.

"I am very sorry," he said, after a painful pause. "Good-bye. It is not my fault."

He went slowly out, and before he had gone half a dozen yards the money struck him on the back, and Long Shon cried hoarsely,—

"Tonal' sends ye his curse for blasting ta home o' ta Mackhais!"

Once more the coins fell jingling down, and, flinching away, shrinking with shame, sorrow, and indignation, Max returned into the house, feeling that he could not go boating now, and wishing that the next day had come, and he were on the road back to London.

But, just as he reached the hall, he heard the voice of the man in charge raised loudly, and, looking out, he saw the second man running along the natural rock terrace, below which lay the bathing cavern and the rugged platform from which they would take boat.

The next moment Scoodrach's voice rose in shrill and angry tones, and he could see that Kenneth was holding him back.

Max ran down with his pulses throbbing, for he felt that something was very wrong.

"I'll have the law of him," the bailiff was saying, as Max ran up. "He struck me, and drew his knife on me. I'll have him locked up before he knows where he is."

"Let her go, let her go, Maister Ken!" yelled Scoodrach, struggling furiously. "She'll hae her bluid! Let her go, and she'll slit her weam!"

"Be quiet, Scood," said Kenneth, holding the young gillie fast, but speaking in a low, despondent tone. "Here, Max, take the knife away from this mad fool."

"Nay, nay," cried Scoodrach; "if the Southron comes she'll hae her bluid too."

Instinctively grasping what was the matter, and with his cheeks flushed with indignation, Max dashed at Scoodrach, seized his wrist, and twisted the knife out of his hand.

"What does this mean?" he cried, turning angrily upon the bailiff.

"Mean, sir? My orders are to let nothing go off the premises, and this young gentleman comes doon wi' this young Hieland wild cat, and tries to get oot the boat."

"Well?"

"Well, sir, I said it was not to go, and then this cat-a-mountain struck me."

"She insulted ta young Chief," panted Scoodrach.

"Be quiet, Scoody; there is no young Chief now," said Kenneth sadly.

"Hey, but ta Mackhai will never tie!" yelled Scoodrach.

"Do you mean to say that you hindered Mr Kenneth here from taking the boat for a sail?" cried Max angrily.

"My orders air that naething is to go off the place," said the bailiff sturdily.

"Then you stopped him from taking his own boat?"

"No, sir," cried the bailiff; "it's not his boat, but Mr Blande's, of Lincoln's Inn, London."

"It is not. The boat and everything here is mine," cried Max fiercely. "Take the boat, Ken, and if this insolent scoundrel dares to interfere, knock him down."

"Hurray!" yelled Scoodrach, breaking loose and throwing his bonnet in the air. "Weel done, Maister Max! But na, na; it's no' her poat, and naething here is hers, ye ken."

"Come on, Ken."

"Well, sir, I shall report all this to—"

"Ye ill-faured loon, stan' awa'," yelled Scoodrach, as Max laid his hand on Kenneth's shoulder; and they went down together to the boat, while the bailiff and his man walked muttering back to the house.

"Jump in, Scoodrach, and cast her loose," cried Max; but Kenneth's hand closed tightly on his wrist.

"No, Max," he said slowly and sadly. "Let's get back into the house. I don't feel as if I could go for a sail to-day."

"Oh, Ken!" whispered Max; "and I said everything was mine. I did not mean it. I couldn't take a thing."

"Let's go indoors."

"But if by law the boat is mine, it's yours again now. Come, take me for one more ride."

"No, no! I can't go now."

There was a dead silence on the old grey terrace for a few minutes. The gulls wailed as they swept here and there over the glistening sea, and the golden-red and brown weed washed to and fro among the rocks.

"I ask you to go, Ken," said Max gently. "Don't refuse me this. Scood, my things are packed; fetch them down. Kenneth Mackhai, I shall go to-day; take me to meet the steamer, just as you came to meet me six weeks ago."

Ken looked at him half wonderingly.

"Do you mean it?" he said hoarsely.

"Yes. You will?"

"Yes."

An hour had not passed before the white-sailed boat was softly bending over to the breeze, and almost in silence the three lads sat gazing before them, heedless of the glorious panorama of mountain, fiord, and fall that seemed to be gliding by, till far away in the distance they could see the red funnel of David Macbrayne's swift steamer pouring forth its trailing clouds of black smoke, which seemed to reach for miles.

Then by degrees the steamer grew plainer, the white water could be seen foaming behind the beating paddles, and the figures of the passengers on deck. Then the faces grew clearer, and there was a scurry by the gangway, and almost directly after the paddles ceased churning up the clear water, the sail dropped down. Scoodrach caught the rope that was thrown; the portmanteaus, gun-case, and rods were passed up, and, not trusting himself to speak, Max grasped Scoodrach's hand, pressing a couple of sovereigns therein, seized Kenneth's for a moment, and then leaped on board.

The rope was cast off; there was a loud ting from the captain's bell, the paddles revolved, the boat glided astern, with Kenneth sitting despondently on one of the thwarts, and some one at Max's elbow said to another hard by,—

"See that red-headed Scotch boy?"

"Yes; but did you see what he did?"

"Yes; threw something into the sea."

"Did you see what it was?"

"No."

"A couple of sovereigns."

"No!"

"Yes. I saw them go right down through the clear water."

"Then he must be mad."

"Not mad," said Max to himself; "but as full of pride as of love for The Mackhai."

He made his way astern, and took off and waved his bonnet.

The effect was electrical. Kenneth sprang up and waved his bonnet in return, and, a few minutes later, Scoodrach, whose ire had passed away, began to wave his, and Max stood watching and wondering why they did not hoist the sail and return.

And then he did not wonder, but stood leaning over the rail, watching the boat grow less and the figures in her smaller, till they seemed to die away in the immensity of the great sea.

But Max did not move even then. His heart was full, and it was with a sensation of sorrow and despondency such as he had never felt before that the rest of the journey was made, boat changed for train, and finally, and with a reluctance such as he could not have believed possible, he reached London, and stood once more before his father, who met him coolly enough, with,—

"Well, Max, back again?"

"Yes, father; and I want to ask you something about Dunroe."

"Humph!" said the old lawyer, about half an hour later; "so you think like that, do you, Max?"

"Yes, father."

"Well, you'll grow older and wiser some day."

"But you will not turn them out?"

"When I want to take you into counsel, Master Max, I shall do so. Now please understand this once for all."

"Yes, father?"

"Never mention the names of the Mackhais again."



CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR.

RESTITUTION.

Time glided on, and Mr Andrew Blande's plans did not seem to turn out quite as he wished. The customary legal proceedings were got through, and he became full possessor of Dunroe, with the right, as the deeds said, to enjoy these rights. But he was a very old man, one who had married late in life, to find that he had made a mistake, for the marriage was hurried on by the lady's friends on account of his wealth, and the lady who became his wife lived a somewhat sad life, and died when her son Max was ten years old.

To make Max happy, his father had been in the habit of letting him lead a sedentary life, and of telling him how rich he would some day be, and had gone on saving and hoarding, and gaining possession of estate after estate.

But when he had obtained Dunroe, he did not enjoy it. He went down once to stay there, but he never did so again; and finding, in spite of all he could say, that Max would not enjoy it either, and seemed to have a determined objection to become a Scottish country gentleman, he placed the estate in the hands of his agent to let, and it was not long before a tenant was found for the beautiful old place.

As the years glided on, Max went to college, and kept up a regular correspondence with Kenneth, who, as soon as it could be managed after their leaving Dunroe, went to Sandhurst, his father contenting himself with quiet chambers in town near his club.

But Max and Kenneth did not meet; the troubles at Dunroe seemed to keep them separate. Still, there was always a feeling on the part of both that some day they would be the best of friends once more, and the money question be something that was as good as forgotten.

One day, Max, who had six months previously been summoned to London on very important business, received a letter which had followed him from Cambridge to the dingy old house in Lincoln's Inn.

The young man's face flushed as he opened and read the long epistle, whose purport was that The Mackhai had gone to Baden-Baden for a couple of months, that the writer was alone at his father's chambers, and asking Max to renew some of their old friendly feeling by coming to stay with him for a few days.

Six months before, Max would have declined at once, but now he wrote accepting the invitation with alacrity.

It was for the next day but one, and in due course Max drove up with his portmanteau, and was ushered by a red-haired, curly-headed footman to Kenneth's room.

"The maister's not in," said the footman; "but she was to—I was to say that he'd soon be pack—back, and—"

"Why, Scoody, I didn't know you," cried Max. "How you have grown!"

"Yes, she's—I mean, sir, I have grown a good deal and master says I haven't done."

There was the rattle of a latch-key in the outer door, and a tall, handsome young fellow, thoroughly soldierly-looking in every point, strode into the room.

"Max, old chap!" he cried, catching his hands and standing shaking them heartily. "Why, what a great—I say, what a beard."

"And you six feet!"

"No, no—five feet ten."

"And moustached, and a regular dragoon!"

"How did you know that?"

"Know that?"

"Yes; I've just got my commission in the Thirtieth Dragoons."

"I congratulate you!" cried Max. "'Full many a shot at random sent,' etcetera."

"Then you did not know? Well, never mind that; only it isn't all pleasure. The governor says it is too expensive a service for me to go in. The old fellow's not very flush of money, you see."

"Indeed?" said Max quietly.

"Well, never mind that either. But I say, what are you going in for— Church or Law?"

"Neither. I think I shall settle down as a country gentleman."

"Yes, of course," said Kenneth hastily. "Here, let me show you your room. We'll have a snug tete-a-tete dinner, and talk about our old fishing days, and the boating."

"Yes," cried Max; "and the fishing and boating to come."

"Ah!" said Kenneth thoughtfully; and the conversation drifted off into minor matters, and about Kenneth's prospects as a soldier.

The tete-a-tete dinner was eaten, and they became as it were three boys again, Scoodrach trying to look very sedate, but his cheeks shining and eyes flashing as he listened, while pretending to be busy over his work. Then at last the young men were seated together over their coffee, and the conversation took a fresh turn.

"My father?" said Kenneth, in answer to a question; "oh, very well and jolly. I say, do you two go down much to—to Dunroe?"

"No," said Max huskily. "You do not seem to know my father has been dead these six months."

"I beg your pardon, Max, old fellow. I ought to have known. Shall you go down to Dunroe much now?"

"I hope so—often," said Max.

Kenneth was silent, and sat gazing dreamily before him, while Max watched him curiously.

"And I hope—I shall see you there often," said Max.

"Eh? what?" said Kenneth, flushing and frowning. "No, no, it's well meant, Max, old chap, but I couldn't do it. I couldn't go there again."

There was another silence, and, to Kenneth's great relief, Max rose and left the room without a word.

"Poor old chap!" said Kenneth; "I've offended him, I suppose. I did not mean to. It was very blundering and foolish of him, though, to propose such a thing."

He sat gazing before him sternly.

"Poor old Dunroe!" he said sadly. "How I can see the dear old place again, with its rocks all golden-ruddy weed, its shimmering sea, and the distant blue mountains. Ah, what days those were! I should like to see the dear old place again. But no, no! I couldn't go and stay there now."

He leaped up, and strode once or twice up and down the room.

"Here, what a pretty host I am! I must fetch him down. I've hurt him, and he always was such a sensitive chap."

He was half across the room when Max returned, with a large leather lock-up folio under his arm.

"Oh, you needn't have fetched that down," said Kenneth. "Plenty of writing materials here. But you are not going to write to-night?"

"No, not to-night," said Max quietly, taking a little silver key from off his watch-chain, and opening the folio, which was made with a couple of very large pockets. "Do you take any interest in old writings?"

"Not a bit, my boy. I've had enough to do to study up and pass my exams. But what have you got there?"

"The old mortgage and the title-deeds of Dunroe," said Max quietly.

"But—I say, old fellow, don't do that. I'm pretty hard, but the name of Dunroe always gives me a choky feeling in the throat."

"So it does me, Ken, old fellow!" cried Max, with his voice trembling.

"Then why—?"

"Wait a moment. Do you remember how we two were gradually drawn together up there in the north?"

"Yes, of course," said Kenneth huskily.

"I never had a brother, Ken, and I used to feel at last that I had found one in you."

"And I used to think something of the kind, but—"

"Why not, Ken?"—Max was holding out his hand.

Kenneth stood a moment looking in his eyes, and then grasped the extended hand firmly.

"Yes," he cried; "why not? It's the same old Max after all."

"Then you'll act as a brother to me if I ever ask you to help me in some critical point of my life?"

"Indeed I will."

"Then help me now, Ken, as a brother should, to make a great restoration, and me a happier man."

"I—I don't understand," cried Kenneth wonderingly. "What do you mean?"

"Your father's while he lives, Ken; yours after as his heir."

"Are you mad, Max?"

"Yes, with delight, old fellow!" he cried, as he forced the folio and its contents into his old friend's hands.

"But—"

"Not another word. My father left me very rich, and in a codicil to his will he said he hoped I should make good use of the wealth he left me, and that it might prove a greater source of happiness to me than it had been to him."

"But, Max—"

"I think he would approve of what I am doing now; and if you do not ask me down for a month or two every year, I'll say you are not the Ken Mackhai I used to know."

The objections to and protestations against Max Blande's munificent gift were long and continued. The Mackhai was summoned over from Baden, and he declared it to be impossible.

But all was arranged at last, and Max's fortune suffered very little by his generosity.

The Mackhais took possession of the old home once again, and Max Blande was present at the rejoicings; when fires were lit on each of the four old towers, when there was a feast for all comers, and Tavish went through the evolutions of the sword-dance, while torches were held around, and old Donald, who had to sit to play, poured feebly forth some of his favourite airs.

Max even felt that the pipes were bearable that night, as he poured out some whisky for the ancient piper, and received his blessings now instead of a furious curse.

And somehow, Max used to declare to Ken, he found ten times more enjoyment in the place now than if it had been his own.

And time went on once more.

"Remember?" said a bronzed cavalry officer to a tall, sedate-looking young country gentleman, as they sat together on the deck of The Mackhai's yacht, gliding slowly up the great sea loch.

"Do I remember what?"

"Where I picked you up from the steamer when you first came down?"

"To be sure I do, Ken, old fellow! Why, it must have been just here. Why, Ken, that's fifteen years ago!"

"Exactly, almost to a month. And I've been all around the world since then. How does it make you feel?"

"How?" cried Max, laying his hand upon the other's shoulder; "as if we were boys again. And you?"

"As if the memories of boyhood can never die."

THE END.