The Last of Their Race

by Annie S. Swan

"I came in consequence of your letter to papa yesterday, Mr. Cattanach," said Isla as they shook hands. "It was of such importance that I thought I would come and have a talk with you about it."

Cattanach was not an old man, and he bore his fifty years lightly. He had a somewhat heavy yet keen face, was a little stern in repose. But, when his genial smile irradiated his face, the sternness was forgotten. His reputation in the city was that of being one of the first lawyers of the day, and business simply flowed in upon his firm.

His father had been at the helm of Achree affairs when they were in a more prosperous state, and he had been a life-long friend and admirer of the General. He had managed to communicate his sincere and sympathetic interest to his son, who had done much more for the Mackinnons than they could have had the right to expect from their man of business or than could ever be repaid. He had indeed helped young Mackinnon out of several scrapes for his father's and his sister's sake, though doing that had been a service very ill to his liking. An interview with Isla herself, however, was a pure pleasure, which, on this occasion, was all the keener that it was wholly unexpected.

"Yes, thank you, I am quite well and father too, though he is failing, I think," she said rather sadly. "I came in answer to your letter and in order to show you this."

She had a small bag of curiously-wrought Moorish leather on her arm, from which she produced the letter that had come yesterday by the Indian mail. She did not immediately pass it over, however, or read any extract from it, but, leaning slightly forward in her chair, she fixed her clear, grave eyes on the lawyer's face as he stood in quite characteristic attitude in front of his desk, leaning one hand slightly on the table.

"Won't you sit down, Mr. Cattanach? I'm afraid I must take up quite a lot of your time this morning--an hour perhaps. I have to lunch at the St. Enoch's Hotel at one."

"Then I shall not have the pleasure of taking you to lunch myself."

"Not to-day, thank you," said Isla, and he imagined her colour rose slightly. "It is about your letter I first want to speak. My father did not comprehend it, I am afraid. He sent the message to you," she added with a faint, wandering smile, "that he was surprised that a lawyer did not express himself better. But of course to me what you said was perfectly clear. Tell me about this man who wishes to take poor old Achree. Is he--is he at all a possible person?"

There was just the slightest suggestion of hauteur in the question, which, at another time, might have amused Cattanach hugely. Out in the hard world of men and business things were called by their right names, and there would have been small sympathy expressed for the Mackinnon pride.

But he understood. This fine creature, product of an ancient race and embodiment in her own personality of all that was best in it, appealed to him beyond any power of his to express. He was prepared to meet her and to help her, not only to the best of his ability but even beyond what his prudence and his better judgment would have permitted. And it would not be the first time in the record of his transactions with Achree that service had been rendered by Alexander Cattanach from purely disinterested motives--service that had never found its way into the columns of any ledger.