a hero of mine. I didn't know any one had
a right to his name nowadays."

"I dare to bear it, like a Standard, with or without right, though
unworthily. Somerled of the Isles was my hero too."

"Then you're Scottish, like me," said Barrie. "I don't feel related to
Grandma's people, and I don't know anything about mother's. But if
you're going to be my friend for her sake, I'm glad your name is
Somerled. It's splendid!"

"Yes, it's splendid to be called Somerled," the man agreed, faintly
emphasizing the substituted word. "And I'm proud to be a Scot, though
I've lived half my life in America, and they think of me there as an
American. I've been thinking of myself that way too for seventeen years.
But blood's a good deal thicker than water, and I was born on the island
of Dhrum."

"Our island!" exclaimed Barrie. "That makes it seem as if we were
related."

"I hoped it would, because a Somerled has a right to the trust of a
MacDonald. Will you trust me to motor you to my friend Mrs. West, who's
stopping just now with her brother in a nice little house just outside
Carlisle? It's named Moorhill Farm, and belongs to a Mrs. Keeling, who
has lent it to Mrs. West. I'm going there, and they'll be glad to keep
you until we can learn where you ought to meet your mother. Perhaps you
know of Mrs. Keeling and her house?"

Barrie glanced at him half longingly, half doubtfully. She had been
looking forward to the adventure of travelling to London; but if there
were less chance of her mother being there than elsewhere, London was
wiped off the map. Still Barrie was loth to abandon her plan. To do so
was like admitting failure--in spite of the motor, which she would love
to try. She had never been within two yards of a motor-car.

"I've seen Mrs. Keeling in church," she said. "She has stick-out teeth.
Grandma bows to her. But how can you tell that Mrs. West will be glad to
have me?"

"I'll answer for her hospitality," came Somerled's assurance. "You'll
like Mrs. West. She's a widow, and a sweet woman. Her brother's as nice
as she is--Basil Norman. Perhaps you've heard of them? They write books
together--stories about travel and love and motor-cars."

"No," Barrie confessed. "I don't know any authors later than Dickens,
unless I see their names in book-sellers' windows, when I come into town
with Heppie--Miss Hepburn. If you don't mind, I think I'd rather not go
to Mrs. West's. I'm afraid of strangers."

"Are you afraid of me