"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."