The Last of Their Race

by Annie S. Swan

"She says will you please come pack to the house if you can spare the time after you haf peen at Balquhidder, as she would like to speak with you, whatefer."

Rosmead silently nodded. Had the American boat sailed that very afternoon it is safe to say that one passenger at least would have failed to take his berth.

Diarmid, very respectful with a touch of gratitude in his mien, waited upon Rosmead and finally ushered him to the library where a small company were already assembled for the service that was to take place at a quarter to twelve.

Malcolm, very pale and slightly haggard, came forward immediately to greet Rosmead, whom he introduced to his uncle.

"Happy to meet you, sir," said Sir Tom, as his great hand grasped the American's slender one in a grip of iron. "We, as a family, will not readily forget your kindness at this time to the son and daughter of my poor brother. It was a Christian act, sir--a Christian act."

Rosmead asked him not to say more, passing it over as if ashamed that so much should be made of it. Then he stepped back and looked about at the people in the room. Some of them he recognized, but Neil Drummond, sourly resentful of his intimate presence there, unaware, of course, that he came by Isla's special invitation, did not suffer his eyes to alight on his face.

Rosmead was impressed by the circumstance that there were no flowers upon the coffin--only the Union Jack and the old soldier's sword, to the hilt of which was tied a bunch of white heather. All was simple, severe, and impressive. The short service was quickly over. Then a sudden, weird sound broke upon the listening ears--the wailing of the pipes, which filled the soundless air with a melancholy music.

All this time Isla had not appeared, and Rosmead strained his eyes in vain for a sight of her. But it was denied him, and he had not even asked for her welfare.

It was a great burying, the like of which had not been seen in the glens for many a year. As the cortège, half a mile long, slowly defiled through Lochearnhead it was joined by a score or more of vehicles that waited it there. And so it was all the way to the Braes of Balquhidder.

Rosmead, who had left his car at Achree and entered one of the mourning coaches, felt the impressiveness of the whole scene, and was almost moved to tears when they turned away from the grave to the sweet haunting strains of the "Flowers of the Forest".