“You like this boy, then?”
“Like him, father! Why, he is the best of fellows! When he came down here first, I laughed at him, and thought him the most silly molly of a chap I ever met. But he’s so good-hearted and patient, and takes everything so well, and all the time so genuinely plucky as soon as he makes up his mind to face anything, that you can’t help liking him.”
“Yes; I like him too,” said The Mackhai; “and, as I said, I grossly insulted the poor boy in my rage. Fetch him down, Ken, and I’ll ask him to forgive me—like a gentleman.”
“And he will, father—I know he will!” cried Kenneth eagerly.
“Why, Ken, my boy,” said his father sadly, “you are not jealous of the new prince—the heir to Dunroe?”
“No, father,” said Ken, shaking his head sadly. “I think he likes me too. Some day, perhaps, he may ask me to come down here and stay with him, and see the old place once more.”
“No,” said The Mackhai sternly. “You can never enter this place again except as the master, my boy. Fetch Mr Max Blande down.”
Kenneth gazed for a moment sadly at his father, and then slowly left the room, when the stern look left the unfortunate man’s face, and he dropped his head upon his hands.
“My poor boy!” he groaned. “My poor boy! Ruined! and by me!”
It was as if a responsive moan echoed round the house as a gust of wind came off the sea, and, starting and looking wildly round, The Mackhai rose and gazed out upon the dark sea and the dimly-seen black clouds scudding across the gloomy sky.