“Yes; I’ve brought our visitor, Mr Max Blande.”
“Ah!” said the old man, half-rising and making a courtly bow; “she hurt that the young Southron laird had come, and there’s sorrow in her old heart, for the pipes are not ready to give him welcome to the home of our Chief.”
“What, haven’t you got ’em mended yet?”
“Not quite, Kenneth, laddie. I’m doing them well, and to-morrow they shall sing the old songs once again.”
“Hurrah!” cried Kenneth. “My friend here is fra the sooth, but he lo’es the skirl o’ the auld pipes like a son o’ The Mackhai.”
“Hey! Does he?” cried the old man, firing up. “Then let him lay his han’ in mine, and to-morrow, and the next day, and while he stays, he shall hear the old strains once again.”
“That’s right.”
“Ay, laddie, for Donald has breath yet, auld as he is.”
“Ah, you’re pretty old, aren’t you, Donald?”
“Old? Ay. She’ll be nearly a hundert, sir,” said the old man proudly. “A hundert—a hundert years.”