"No, no, lads," she would cry almost petulantly; "I cannot be happy until I see you in the glen once more, safe and sound!"
Two weeks passed--oh, ever so quickly--away, and the last week was to be devoted wholly and solely to the packing of trunks, a very pleasurable and hopeful employment indeed.
Duncan was facile princeps at this work, and he kept a note-book always near, so that whenever he thought about anything he might need, he wrote it down--just as if it had not been possible to get every article he might require in great London, from a needle to an anchor.
Only, as he told his brother Conal, "It is far better to be sure than sorry."
Well, the last day--the last sad day--came round at last and farewells had to be said on both sides.
Mrs. M'Vayne kept up as well as she could, and so did the boys. Noblesse oblige, you know, for although their father was but a Highland laird, and poor at that, he was connected by blood with the chiefs of the best clans in Scotland.
Poor honest Viking had watched the packing with the very greatest of interest, and so sad did he appear that Duncan and Conal made up their minds to take him with them. And when they told him so, there really was not a much happier dog in all the British islands. For Viking was wise beyond compare, and there was very little, indeed, that he did not understand.
But Florie's grief at the loss of her brothers was beyond control, and she made no attempt to hide her tears.
Yes, the laird himself journeyed with his boys as far as Leith, and saw them safe on board.
When the good ship steamed away at last, he waved them a silent adieu, then turned and walked quickly away.