st be packed up and sent away
where it belonged, whereupon everything would go on as before. And the
heather moon would begin to shine gold on purple, for the trip through
bonny Scotland, which he had planned. He had been looking forward to the
tour, not with keen enthusiasm indeed, but with interest. He had been
satisfied with the companions he had chosen, and the fact that they
wanted to see Scotland had given him an incentive for taking the rest
cure he had been imperatively ordered, in his native land rather than
elsewhere. Once, long ago, self-exiled at the age of Barrie MacDonald,
he had passionately yearned for his "ain countree," and often regretted
the boyish vow he was too proud and obstinate to break. But years had
passed now since Duncan MacDonald and his daughter Margaret visited
America to find themselves worth knowing only as kinsfolk of the
despised peasant. Accepting the situation because of its advantages and
his necessities, the old man had ignored the past and "made up" to the
young millionaire artist. Ian's sense of humour had been so tickled
that, to his own surprise, he had laughed and forgotten his youthful
rancour. It struck him as distinctly funny that he had ever taken old
Duncan's waspishness seriously enough to make vows of any sort because
of it. And he saw that indirectly he owed fortune to the haughty lord of
Dhrum. It had amused Somerled a good deal and pleased him a little that
"his highness" (as he called the great one) should implore the "peasant
brat" to become tenant of Dunelin Castle for an unlimited term of years;
that Duncan should chat to newspaper men of his "distinguished relative
Ian MacDonald, who had won fame under the very suitable _nom de guerre_
of Somerled"; and that "Cousin Ian" should be pressed to meet "Cousin
Margaret." It was a queer world, and nobody in it was queerer than one's
self. So Somerled had felt when, just because the miracle had happened
to free him of his vow, he no longer pined to gaze upon his native
Highlands. He felt at home and happy enough in America; and if being
"happy enough" wasn't quite the beautiful state he had pictured as a
boy, it was full of interest. He had taken Dunelin Castle off its
owner's hands at a high yearly rent, in order that no rich and vulgar
Cockney should become the tenant, but he had never stayed there, though
once, even to have the right of entrance would have seemed a fairy
dream. There were no such things as fairy dream