Long, long years, as we know, had gone by since that day when Mrs. Mackenzie turned her soldier son out to face the wide world and poverty, and the stern old dame had somewhat softened as she grew older.
Perhaps if Donald had gone to Drumglen and begged her forgiveness, she would have relented and received him into favour once more. But the same proud blood ran in the veins of both mother and son.
Mr. Dawson went very often to Drumglen, and sometimes spent weeks fishing or shooting on the estate. He enjoyed this, although the house itself and the company were hardly free and easy enough to suit the jolly solicitor.
Dawson was summoned rather hastily once. This was after the body of poor Lieutenant Donald Mackenzie, her son, had been found in the river.
The solicitor found her looking older than ever he had seen her. She seemed broken, not as to physique, but mentally.
She talked a deal about her younger days and her married life, and Dawson guessed rightly that she was working the subject round to her late son.
"O Mr. Dawson," she said at last, "I don't mind confessing to you that I have been just a little too hasty, and that if poor Donald were alive again I—I might consider the whole subject. But there, Mr. Dawson, my regrets are vain; and now I wish you to make my will, for I feel I must soon follow my husband to the grave."
"Why, Mrs. Mackenzie, you are not at all old yet, However," he added, "it is as well we should all be prepared."
"Yes, and that was just what good Mr. M'Thump, our minister, said in the pulpit yesterday. His text was, 'For ye know not the day nor the hour.' A good man and a learned is Mr. M'Thump, and he'll dine with you to-night, Mr. Dawson."
I fear the solicitor did not look overmuch pleased at the information. However, he proceeded to take pencil notes of the lady's will, and that very evening he drew it up.