Part 20 (2/2)

The Glen folk needed no clearing of their chief, and the rest of the world mattered not.

”But there was myself,” said Allan. ”Now it is gone, Maclise, and I can give my hand once more without fear or shame.”

Maclise took the offered hand almost with reverence, and, removing his bonnet from his head, said in a voice, deep and vibrating with emotion,

”Neffer will a man of the Glen count it anything but honour to take thiss hand.”

”Thank you, Maclise,” cried Allan, keeping his grip of the master's hand. ”Now you can tell the Glen.”

”You will not be going to leave us now?” said Maclise eagerly.

”Yes, I shall go, Maclise, but,” with a proud lift of his head, ”tell them I am coming back again.”

And with that message Maclise went to the Glen. From cot to cot and from lip to lip the message sped, that Mr. Allan was himself again, and that, though on the morrow's morn he was leaving the Glen, he himself had promised that he would return.

That evening, as the gloaming deepened, the people of the Glen gathered, as was their wont, at their cottage doors to listen to old piper Macpherson as he marched up and down the highroad. This night, it was observed, he no longer played that most heart-breaking of all Scottish laments, ”Lochaber No More.” He had pa.s.sed up to the no less heart-thrilling, but less heartbreaking, ”Macrimmon's Lament.” In a pause in Macpherson's wailing notes there floated down over the Glen the sound of the pipes up at the big House.

”Bless my soul! whisht, man!” cried Betsy Macpherson to her spouse.

”Listen yonder!” For the first time in months they heard the sound of Allan's pipes.

”It is himself,” whispered the women to each other, and waited. Down the long avenue of ragged firs, and down the highroad, came young Mr. Allan, in all the gallant splendour of his piper's garb, and the tune he played was no lament, but the blood-stirring ”Gathering of the Gordons.” As he came opposite to Macpherson's cottage he gave the signal for the old piper, and down the highroad stepped the two of them together, till they pa.s.sed beyond the farthest cottage. Then back again they swung, and this time it was to the ”c.o.c.k of the North,” that their tartans swayed and their bonnets nodded. Thus, not with woe and lamentation, but with good hope and gallant cheer, young Mr. Allan took his leave of the Glen Cuagh Oir.

CHAPTER VIII

WILL HE COME BACK?

It was the custom in Doctor Dunn's household that, immediately after dinner, his youngest son would spend half an hour in the study with his father. It was a time for confidences. During this half hour father and son met as nearly as possible on equal terms, discussing, as friends might, the events of the day or the plans for the morrow, school work or athletics, the latest book or the newest joke; and sometimes the talk turned upon the reading at evening prayers. This night the story had been one of rare beauty and of absorbing interest, the story, viz., of that idyllic scene on the sh.o.r.e of Tiberias where the erring disciple was fully restored to his place in the ranks of the faithful, as he had been restored, some weeks before, to his place in the confidence of his Master.

”That was a fine story, Rob?” began Doctor Dunn.

”That it was,” said Rob gravely. ”It was fine for Peter to get back again.”

”Just so,” replied his father. ”You see, when a man once turns his back on his best Friend, he is never right till he gets back again.”

”Yes, I know,” said Rob gravely. For a time he sat with a shadow of sadness and anxiety on his young face. ”It is terrible!” he exclaimed.

”Terrible?” inquired the Doctor. ”Oh, yes, you mean Peter's fall? Yes, that was a terrible thing--to be untrue to our Master and faithless to our best Friend.”

”But he did not mean to, Dad,” said Rob quickly, as if springing to the fallen disciple's defence. ”He forgot, just for a moment, and was awfully sorry afterwards.”

”Yes, truly,” said his father, ”and that was the first step back.”

For a few moments Rob remained silent, his face sad and troubled.

”Man! It must be terrible!” at length he said, more to himself than to his father. The Doctor looked closely at the little lad. The eager, sensitive face, usually so radiant, was now clouded and sad.

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