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“Then,” said McTavish, “in every eye save that of the law I am The McTavish.”

Mr. Traquair bowed. “Miss McTavish,” he said, “was for telling you at once; but she left the matter entirely to my discretion. I have thought best to tell you.”

“Would the law,” asked McTavish, “oust Miss McTavish and stand me in her shoes?”

“The law,” said Traquair pointedly, “would not do the former, and,” with a glance at McTavish’s feet, “the Auld Nick could not do the latter.”

McTavish laughed. “Then why have you told me?” he asked.

“Because,” said Traquair grandly, “it is Miss McTavish’s resolution to make no opposition to your claim.”

“I see; I am to become ‘The’ without a fight.”

“Precisely,” said Traquair.

“Well, discretionary powers as to informing me of this were given you, as I understand, Mr. Traquair?”

“They were,” said Traquair.

“Well,” said McTavish again, “there’s no use crying over spilt milk. But is your conscience up to a heavy load?”

“‘Tis a meeserable vehicle at best,” protested Traquair.

“You must pretend,” said McTavish, “that you have not yet told me.”

“Ah!” Traquair exclaimed. “You wish to think it over.”

“I do,” said McTavish.

Both were silent for some moments. Then Traquair said rather solemnly: “You are young, Mr. McTavish, but I have hopes that your thinking will be of a wise and courageous nature.”

“Do you read Tennyson?” asked McTavish, apropos of nothing.

“No,” said Traquair, slightly nettled. “Burns.”

“I am sorry,” said McTavish simply; “then you don’t know the lines:

‘If you are not the heiress born,
And I,’ said he, ‘the lawful heir,’ etc.

do you?”

“No,” said Traquair, “I do not.”

“It is curious how often a lack of literary affinity comes between two persons and a heart-to-heart talk.”

“Let me know,” said Traquair, “when you have thought it over.”

“I will. And now if you will put me down–?”

He leaped to the ground, lifted his hat to the older man, and, turning, strode very swiftly, as if to make up for lost time, back toward the castle gate.

V

McTavish was kept waiting a long time while a servant took his letter of introduction to Miss MacNish, and brought back an answer from the castle.

Finally, midway of a winding and shrubby short cut, into which he turned as directed by the porter, he came suddenly upon her.

“Miss MacNish–?” he said.

“You’re not Mr. McTavish!–” She seemed dumfounded, and glanced at a letter which she carried open in her hand. “My sister writes–“

“What does she write?” asked McTavish eagerly.

“No–no!” Miss MacNish exclaimed hastily, “the letter was to me.” She tore it hastily into little pieces.

“Miss MacNish,” said McTavish, somewhat hurt, “it is evident that I give diametrically opposed impressions to you and your sister. Either she has said something nice about me, and you, seeing me, are astonished that she should; or she has said something horrid about me–I do hope it’s that way–and you are even more surprised. It must be one thing or the other. And before we shake hands I think it only proper for you to tell me which.”

“Let bygones be bygones,” said Miss MacNish, and she held out her hand. McTavish took it, and smiled his enigmatic smile.

“It is your special wish, I have gathered,” said Miss MacNish, “to meet The McTavish. Now she knows about your being in the neighborhood, knows that you are a distant cousin, but she hasn’t expressed any wish to meet you–at least I haven’t heard her. If she wishes to meet you, she will ask you to call upon her. If she doesn’t wish to, she won’t. Of course, if you came upon her suddenly–somewhere in the grounds, for instance–she’d have to listen to what you had to say, and to answer you, I suppose. But to-day–well I’d not try it to-day.”

“Why not?” asked McTavish.

“Why,” said Miss MacNish, “she caught cold in the car yesterday, and her poor nose is much too red for company.”

“Why do you all try to make her out such a bad lot?”