He turned his attention to the enclosed letter from his uncle. It was typical of the man—abrupt in phraseology and entirely lacking in courtesy or sympathy.
“Dear Madam,” it ran, “the master of the Kelvinhaugh advises me that your son, Donald McKenzie, was drowned while fishing in Vancouver harbor on the evening of Sept. 30th, 189—. His body was not recovered. Yours truly, David McKenzie & Co., per D. McK.”
Donald smiled bitterly. “Short, sweet and utterly damnable!” he muttered, and he crushed it savagely in his strong fingers. He opened his mother’s letter again and perused it thoughtfully, trying to read between the lines. There was a lot left unsaid in that letter, and he knew his mother was hard put to it when she was forced to use the passage-money. David McKenzie was apparently as vindictive as ever, he ruminated grimly. The beast! Curtly announcing Donald’s death to his mother and then having her discharged. How had she fared after leaving the Hydro? His imagination pictured fearful things and he stared out of the window unseeing and unconsciously gritted his teeth. Put him before David McKenzie again and let the swine treat his mother as he did before and he would tear the heart out of the hound with his bare hands! The perspiration broke out on his forehead in excess of silent rage as the old fury of Highland blood boiled within him thirsting for revenge....
A hand was placed on his shoulder and a girl’s voice roused him. “I hope you had good news from home, Mr. McKenzie?” It was Ruth, and she was looking at him with an expression of concern in her deep blue eyes.
“We-e-ell, yes,” he answered cheerfully—the old passion dying instantly at the sound of her voice. “It is not bad news. Mother is well and happy.”
She smiled. “I was afraid by the look on your face when you read your letter that something unpleasant was troubling you.” Donald laughed and crumpled the letter into his pocket.
“Are you going to be here this evening?” asked Helena, coming over. “If you are, we might have some music and a little dance. What do you say, Ruth?”
“Surely, surely,” answered the other, “and I’m going to ask Mr. McKenzie to look over some of my recent daubs in the painting line. And, now, coming down from the sublime to the ridiculous, Helena, come and help me clear the table.”
Lolling on the window-seat, McKenzie’s thoughts flew back to his mother in the Glasgow Home. He was anxious to see her again and to have her with him. She must be lonely—very lonely. He was deeply immersed in thought when Ruth, on her way to the kitchen with a pile of dishes, stumbled over a rag mat and sent the crockery crashing to the floor. Donald was on his feet in a second. “I’m so sorry,” he said apologetically. “I should have given you a hand to clear the things away. I’m forgetting my manners. Allow me to pick the pieces up!” He dropped to the floor while the girl regarded him with shining eyes. Such chivalry in domestic mishaps was unusual.