The Chieftain cheered her on with example and precept, and, as usual, irritation died a speedy death in the presence of his bright, cheery personality. While they were still laughing and cheering each other on to fresh exploits, a lad from the post office passed along the road, and the Chieftain wheeled round to call out the usual question—
“Anything for me? Is the post in already?”
The lad shook his head. He was a red-headed sociable-looking creature who seemed only too glad to enliven his walk by a chat en route. His teeth showed in a cheerful smile as he replied—
“The post willna be here for an hour or mair. It’s just a telegram!”
A telegram! It said much for the peaceful seclusion of the Glen that the very sound of the word brought a chill of apprehension to the listening ears. No one received telegrams at the Nag’s Head. One and all the visitors had sojourned thither with the aim of getting away as far as possible from the world of telegrams, and electric trams, and tube railways, and all the nerve-shattering inventions of modern life. Their ambition was to outlive the sense of hurry; to forget that such a thing as hurry existed, and browse along in peaceful uninterrupted ease.
To-day, however, in that far-away world beyond the heather-clad mountains something must have happened of such importance to some member of the little party that it could not wait for the leisurely medium of the post, but for good or ill had demanded instant attention.
Margot and the Chieftain stood in silence for a moment before he asked the second question.
“Who is it for?—What’s the name?”
“Macalister!”