Malcolm shook his head.
"I suppose most men get the luck they deserve," he said a little heavily.
Later, these words recurred with poignancy to Drummond's mind.
They smoked another pipe of peace together in the den afterwards, and about half-past three Drummond took his horse once more and rode through the fine powder of the newly-fallen snow towards the home that was now illumined by so many stars of promise.
A strange restlessness was upon Malcolm Mackinnon when he was left alone, and, after a little deliberation, he took to his horse--the poor common cob that had so often filled Drummond with compassion for the man who had to mount it--and rode slowly down Glenogle.
Though not bred in any of the glens, the cob had learned the way to Achree and needed no guiding when he came to the gate. Achree, with the delicate powder of the snow lying upon it and lightly touching the exquisite tracery of the trees, was a dream-place that looked the fit cradle for a thousand lovely hopes.
Malcolm took his horse to the stables, and when he presented himself at the door asked for Mrs. Rodney Payne.
"She has gone to the village, to the post, sir," the man answered.
This information caused Malcolm to turn about and walk away without another word. What he had to say were perhaps better said in the open, where none could hear and where there would be room to breathe and to think. He had a die to cast that day which would make or mar the rest of his life.
It was below the Darrach Brig he met Vivien walking alone with step a little fleet, the snow sprinkled over her long coat and lightly powdering her beautiful hair. She was pleased to see him, but her colour did not rise, nor were there about her any of the signs the impatient lover can interpret to his own joy.