"Oh! do read it out," cried Flora impulsively.
Her father obeyed, as all dutiful fathers do when they receive a command from juvenile daughters.
"Maida Vale, London.
"My dear 42nd cousin,--I think that is about our relationship. Well, I was never good at counting kin, so we must let it stand at that. Heigho! That is my 42nd sigh since breakfast time, and it isn't the luncheon hour yet. But I couldn't quite tell you what I am sighing for; I think it must be for the Highland moors around you, on which I enjoyed so glorious a time in August. Heigho! (43rd). Your hills must still be clad in the crimson and purple glory of heath and heather whence scattered coveys or whirring wings spring skywards (Poetry!).
"Well now, I've got something to propose. Since his poor mother died, my boy Frank--fifteen next birthday, you know--has not seemed to thrive well. He is a capital scholar, and is of a very inventive turn of mind. He delights in the country, and when he and I bike away down into the greenery of fields and woods he always looks better and happier. But at home he has nothing to look at that is natural--a few misshapen trees only, a shaven lawn, evergreens, and twittering sparrows.
"He is lively enough, and plays the fiddle charmingly. He is only a London lad after all, and his pale face bears witness to the fact.
"Well, cousin, fair exchange is no robbery. Send me your two boys up here to spend the winter, and then I'll send the whole three down to you to put in the spring and summer. Expected results? Is that what you ask, cousin mine? Well, they are these. A little insight into London life will assist in toning down the fiery Highland exuberance of your brave lads, and will help to make them young men of the world. While a spell among your Highland hills shall put more life-blood into my boy, and make him stronger, braver, and heartier."
"Ha! ha! ha!" laughed Duncan. "He is going to civilize us, is he, daddy dear? We'll have to wear frock-coats, long hats and long faces, and carry umbrellas. What do you think of that, Conal?"
"Why," said Conal disdainfully, "umbrellas are only for old wives and Sassenachs. The plaid for me."
"And me!"