They will all be millionaires. Archie says he is going to have a nice mansion down in the Clachan, and close by the riverside, and will fish there and in the sea just as when he was a boy. Nothing will satisfy Kenneth but a house near the fairy knoll. He pulls out the old Bible, Nannie’s gift, and opens it. There lie the withered flowers, and looking at them sets him a-thinking and a-wondering and a-dreaming.
“Little Jessie,” he says to himself, “can she still be alive? Is it possible she might one day be mine?”
He restores the flowers, restores the Book of books, and lies back to gaze at the starry sky and think.
But he is not allowed to.
“Out with the flute, Kennie,” cries Archie. “Oh, play me some dear auld Scottish lilt, that will make tears of joy well up in our eyes?”
Kenneth plays tune after tune, air after air; and then the trio join voices and sing “My native Highland home” till the woods ring and pine trees nod, and distant rocks send back the chorus.
There is hardly any need of a blanket to-night, for the day has been hot, and look, even now clouds are rolling slowly up and hiding the half-moon. Great round clouds they are, and little dark water-dog clouds lie nearer the earth, and seem to perch and leap from top to top of the pine trees, like birds of evil omen.
A storm is brewing.
By-and-bye, from far over the hills comes the muttering growl of distant thunder. Presently clouds go scurrying overhead, and a bright flash is followed by a rattling peal.