Miss Erith was very lovely as she stood there in the garden whither breakfast was fetched immediately and laid out on a sturdy green garden-table—porridge, coffee, scones, jam, and an egg.
Chipping the latter she let her golden-hazel eyes rest at moments upon the young fellow seated opposite. At other moments, sipping her coffee or buttering a scone, she glanced about her at the new grass starred with daisies, at the daffodils, the slim young fruit-trees,—and up at the old white facade of the ancient abode of the Lairds of Isla.
"Why the white flag up there, Kay?" she inquired, glancing aloft.
He laughed, but flushed a little. "Yankee that I am," he admitted, "I seem to be Scot enough to observe the prejudices and folk-ways of my forebears."
"Is it your clan flag?"
"Bratach Bhan Chlaun Aoidh," he said smilingly. "The White Banner of the McKays."
"Good! And what may that be—that bunch of weed you wear in your button-hole?" Again the young fellow laughed: "Seasgan or Cuilc—in Gaelic—just reed-grass, Miss Yellow-hair."
"Your clan badge?"
"I believe so."
"You're a good Yankee, Kay. You couldn't be a good Yankee if you treated Scotch custom with contempt…. This jam is delicious. And oh, such scones!"