Years have passed since the days of which I have been writing; they have not made very much change in our Irish hero. He is still the painter, still the poet, only there is not one only, but two little listeners now, that gaze up round-eyed and wonderingly at their father, whenever he takes up his magical instrument, the violin! Old Ap teaches these little ones to cut boats out of scraps of wood, and to rig small yachts in the summer evenings. The glen and castle both are wonderfully improved. There is some good after all in ambition, if it is an honest one, and some truth, too, in the motto of the Camerons, “Whatever a man dares he can do.”
Every year Ralph, brave English Ralph, comes to the castle on the twelfth, and always spends a month; and every year Allan and Rory go southwards to Leigh Hall to return the visit. And they never go without taking Silas and McBain with them, so you may be sure these are very happy, very pleasant seasons.
What about Seth? Oh, merely this, Ralph offered to take him back to his own country, and to re-instal him as an Arctic Crusoe in his far northern home.
“Gentlemen,” said Seth, “I’m right sensible of all your kindness, but I guess I’m getting old, and if my young friend here wouldn’t mind, I’d prefer leaving my bones in the glen here. Civilisation has kind o’ spoiled the old trapper, and he’d feel sort o’ lonely now in his old farm. There ain’t many b’ars in the glen, I reckon; but never mind, old Seth can still draw a bead on a rabbit.”
“And so you shall,” said Allan. “I’ll make you my warren-master, and head of all my keepers.”
So Seth has settled down to end his days in peace. He dwells in one of the prettiest little Highland cottages that ever you saw. It gets snowed over in winter sometimes, it is true, and that might be looked upon as a drawback; but oh, to see it in summer, when the feathery birches nod green around it and the heather is all in bloom!
Peter played a little trick on poor old Seth, which I cannot help recording.
“It will never do, you know,” Peter told him, “for a Highland keeper on the estate of Glentruim not to wear the kilt.”
“Guess you’re a kind o’ right,” said Seth, “but, bless you, Peter, my legs ain’t o’ no consequence, they ain’t a bit thicker than old Bran the deerhound’s, and I reckon they’re just about the same shape.”
“Well,” replied Peter, “I grant you that is a kind of an objection, but then custom is everything, you know.”