Max asks the Way to Glasgow.
“And does everything go to him, father?” said Kenneth that same evening, as he sat with his father in the study, the table covered with papers, and the wind from off the sea seeming to sigh mournfully around the place.
“Everything, my boy. Mortgage upon mortgage, interest and principal, built up and increasing year by year, till it has come to this. There, you do not understand these things. It is the worst.”
“Yes, father. Well, we must meet it, as you say, like men. But it will be very hard to leave the old place. Poor old Scoody, and Tavish, and—”
“Don’t talk about it, my boy, or you’ll drive me mad. There, the horror has come, and it’s over. We shall not be able to leave here yet for a month, perhaps. The man Blande has sent me a letter. I am not to hurry away; now he has asserted his rights, he says he wishes to be courteous to the man who has behaved so well to his son. Hah! where is Max?”
“In his room, I suppose, father.”
“Fetch him down, Ken,” said The Mackhai cheerfully, “and let me apologise to the poor boy. I insulted him grossly, for he couldn’t have known why he was sent down here.”
“Say that again, father!” cried Kenneth excitedly.
“There is no need, my boy. I am sure he must have been in profound ignorance of everything. It was a bitter blow when he was sent down uninvited; but I think we have behaved well to him till now.”
“You don’t know how glad you have made me feel, father!” cried Kenneth, flushing. “I couldn’t have borne for poor old Max to have turned out a miserable spy.”