Malcolm had not a word to say. He murmured good night and went downstairs to the lonely hearth, where he tried to extract some comfort from his pipe.
But his quiet was disturbed by the low sound of his sister's sobbing from the room above.
CHAPTER XIII
THE PASSING OF MACKINNON
A chamber-maid at the St. Enoch's Hotel in Glasgow brought a sheaf of letters to Rosmead along with shaving-water on Monday morning at half-past seven.
He glanced over them with quick carelessness, and, finding one small, square, black-edged envelope, addressed in a handwriting that he did not know, he quickly broke the seal, which bore an unfamiliar coat of arms. Once more his pulses beat high, for this was the first time Isla Mackinnon had written to him, and over a man in love the handwriting of the woman he loves wields a surprising power.
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.