There was a general clinking of glasses and nodding of heads towards the piper and the game-keeper: 'Your health, Mr Cameron!' 'I look towarts ye, Mr MacTavish!' 'Your fery cood healths, shentlemen!' &c.
It need hardly be said that Mr Cameron and Mr MacTavish looked extremely foolish as the sounds gradually passed into silence, and all eyes became fixed on them; but neither of them seemed disposed to rise. At length the piper sprang to his feet.
'It wass a great honour that His Grace paid me, and I thank him for it with all my heart. And it wass—well it wass, ladies and shentlemens—well, ye may hef heard mirofer that there wass a small wee bit of a tifference—inteed ye might call it a quarrel between Mister MacTavish and me, and it wass a pity too whatefer—nae doot there might be faults on poth sides—and Your Grace, if ye will allow me to say it—I pear no enmity to no man this nicht, no not to Mister MacTavish, nor to any other shentleman at all, at all.'
'Bravo! bravo!' exclaimed the Duke, looking towards Mr MacTavish. But that worthy had no gift of words, and only signified his emotion by a series of dry-lipped jerks and nods and a waving of the hands in the piper's direction, meant to imply his general assent to the piper's view of the case.
The Duke again rose. 'I now rise to ask you, every one of you, Mr Cameron and Mr MacTavish included, to fill your glasses a good bumper, to drink with me the toast of this evening. I drink to the very good health of the bride and bridegroom in whose honour this ball is given to-night.' At the same moment the door opened, and Angus MacTavish entered with Maggie Cameron—no longer Cameron—leaning on his arm. Maggie looked round the room in some bewilderment. When her eye met her father's, her hand dropped from Angus's arm, and with her face all pale, she walked firmly toward him. When she came to him, she stopped.
'Dad!'—with quivering lip and with eyes in which lurked tears—'iss it angry with me ye are then, dad, cass I hef married Angus MacTavish? O dad, ye'll no pe that angry!'
The piper, conscious of the dramatic possibilities of the situation, paused, looked at the Highland Chief, who was still on his feet, and then at Maggie's sweet fresh face, which was turned piteously to him. He looked at the white muslin dress, prettily studded over with satin bows, and from there to the dainty white satin boot that peeped from below the dress, and felt proud to be his daughter's father.
'And iss it merrit ye are then, Maggie, to Angus MacTavish? but it iss—well, it iss a praw lad too, and well deservin' a praw lass for his wife'——
Maggie's arms were immediately thrown about her father's neck, and the welled-up tears found easy channel.
'Gif me your hand, Angus, ye pla-guard!' The hands griped with Celtic impetuosity.