There was no answer.
The Mackhai had taken up a letter brought in that morning by one of the gillies, and was frowning over it as he re-read its contents, and then sat thoughtfully gazing out of the window across the glittering sea, at the blue mountains in the distance, tapping the table with his fingers the while.
“Wonder what’s the matter!” thought Kenneth. “Some one wants some money, I suppose.”
The boy’s face puckered up a little as he ceased eating, and watched his father’s face, the furrows in the boy’s brow giving him a wonderful likeness to the keen-eyed, high-browed representative of a fine old Scottish clan.
“Wish I had plenty of money,” thought Kenneth; and he sighed as he saw his father’s face darken.
Not that there was the faintest sign of poverty around, for the room was tastily furnished in good old style; the carpet was thick, a silver coffee-pot glistened upon the table, and around the walls were goodly paintings of ancestral Mackhais, from the bare-armed, scale-armoured chief who fought the Macdougals of Lome, down to Ronald Mackhai, who represented Ross-shire when King William sat upon the throne.
“I can’t help myself,” muttered The Mackhai at last. “Here, Ken, what were you going to do to-day?”
“I was going up the river after a salmon.”
“Not to-day, my boy. Here, I’ve news for you. Mr Blande, my London solicitor, writes me word that his son is coming down—a boy about your age.”
“Son—coming down? Did you invite him, father?”