I wonder what made Mac squeeze the little hand that somehow--accident, I suppose--found its way into his, and was the gentle pressure he thought was returned, all mere imagination on his part?
* * * * *
Next evening Kep went on shore with his friend McTavish. They went long, long before sundown, because first the surgeon must talk a bit with the Squire, then Madge and the young men were going to be off on a ramble over the moor with Bounder.
The Squire and the gallant Navy surgeon talked chiefly about Scotland and the Clans. The ancestors of both had been out in the 45.
Drummond found that Mac was descended directly from a chief of the McTavish clan, which delighted the old man.
What delighted him most, however, was Mac's sturdily stating the facts which English boys need so much to be taught, that the short but bloody war that took place between the Jacobites and the Hanoverian was decidedly not a war between Scotland and England. There were as many so-called "Royalists" in Scotland as there were so-called rebels. That had Prince Charlie reached Norfolk his army would have been trebled in number.
"God bless you, young fellow."
And hand met hand in a hearty shake.
Away over hill and dale now for a long stroll. But where was Kep and Bounder. The restless Kep had gone on before. He left word with the housekeeper that he had gone on and that they would find him--forest way. I'm really afraid that Kep was a sly little dog.
"Oh, we'll find him," said McTavish, and away the two went together up and across the moor.