“But—”
“Not another word. My father left me very rich, and in a codicil to his will he said he hoped I should make good use of the wealth he left me, and that it might prove a greater source of happiness to me than it had been to him.”
“But, Max—”
“I think he would approve of what I am doing now; and if you do not ask me down for a month or two every year, I’ll say you are not the Ken Mackhai I used to know.”
The objections to and protestations against Max Blande’s munificent gift were long and continued. The Mackhai was summoned over from Baden, and he declared it to be impossible.
But all was arranged at last, and Max’s fortune suffered very little by his generosity.
The Mackhais took possession of the old home once again, and Max Blande was present at the rejoicings; when fires were lit on each of the four old towers, when there was a feast for all comers, and Tavish went through the evolutions of the sword-dance, while torches were held around, and old Donald, who had to sit to play, poured feebly forth some of his favourite airs.
Max even felt that the pipes were bearable that night, as he poured out some whisky for the ancient piper, and received his blessings now instead of a furious curse.
And somehow, Max used to declare to Ken, he found ten times more enjoyment in the place now than if it had been his own.
And time went on once more.