"I will overlook none of them, Uncle. I have been a great sinner in this respect."
"For instance, Marion has never weaned herself from you. She talks of you constantly when she comes here, and we have had some tearful hours about your silence and neglect."
"I will atone for them as soon as may be. I have often been sorry that I did not stay and see her marriage."
"It was a grand affair. Nothing like it was ever seen in Glasgow before or since. There were the Bishop and two clergymen to perform the ceremony and a notable company to see that it was properly done. Among this company were three officers from the Household troop, and, if I had the words, I would tell you about their splendid uniforms and stars and ribbons of honor. And there was Lochiel, in full Highland costume, looking more like some old god than a man—and McAllister and McLeod and Moray, and half a dozen more in all their varieties of kilts and plaids and philabegs; velvet vests and gold buttons, and eagle feathers in their Glengary caps. They were a splendid and picturesque background for the lovely bride, clothed in white from head to foot and looking like an angel. McAllister had sent a basket of white heather for bridal bouquets, and every Highlander there wore a spray of it in his vest or cap. I had a stem or two at my own breast—and Marion's veil was crowned with a wreath of the lovely flowers."
"After the marriage, where did they go?"
"First of all, they came here, to my house—and we had a bridal breakfast that none will forget. Lord Glasgow toasted the bride, and the Provost of the City made answer for her. His speech was well enough, but a little o'er long—considering the occasion."
"And then?"
"They went to all the capital cities of Europe. It was a wonderful honeymoon trip. They might have been royalties themselves, they were that nobly entertained. Well, well! Marion Macrae was a bonnie bride, and she is far bonnier and better now than she was then—the best of mothers, the best of wives, a noble woman every way. She has a son called 'Ian,' after you, and two little girls who wear the names of Agnes and Jessy—you know——"
"Yes—I know. How could I ever forget?"
"And there is poor Donald. You are not to slight Donald. You will write to him, Ian?"