“No, no, not to-day,” said Grant, who read the young visitor’s reluctance to go.
“But ta chiel’ lo’es ta pipes,” cried Donald.
“Then you shall play to him another time.”
“Yes, another time, Tonal’. Be off now, and I’ll bring ye a wee drappie by and by,” cried Kenneth.
“She’ll pring her a wee drappie? Good laddie! She shall pring her a wee drappie, and she wass nice and try up in the tower, and she wass make a nice fire.”
He made a mysterious sign or two, suggestive of his making a silent promise to give his young master all the music he had intended for Max, and went slowly out of the great stone-floored place.
“Noo, send oot the dogs,” said Grant; and, to make sure, he did it himself, a quiet wave of his hand being sufficient to drive them all out into the yard behind the kitchen.
“She said she should soon pe fine,” said Long Shon, as a gleam of sunshine shot through the window; for the storm was passing over, and its rearguard, in the form of endless ragged fleecy clouds, could be seen racing across the blue sky; while, in an hour from then, the sky was swept clear, and the sun shone out bright and warm.
“Now,” cried Kenneth, “let’s get the rifles, and go and have a stalk.”
“It would jist aboot be madness,” said Grant; “and the Chief would be in a fine way. Tell him he can’t go.”