be brooked!"

He stood in a brown study until there was a tap at the door. "Come
in!"

Alice entered, bearing before her a bowl of flowers of all fair hues
and shapes. She herself was like a bright, strong, winsome flower. "To
make your room look bonny!" she said, and placed the bowl upon the
table. To do so she pushed aside the books. "What a withered,
snuff-brown lot! Won't you be glad when you are back in the keep with
all the books?"

Glenfernie, wrapped in a brown gown, came with his stick back to the
great chair before the books. "Bonny--they are bonny!" he said and
touched the flowers. "I've set a week from to-day to be dressed and
out of this and back to the keep. Another week, and I shall ride Black
Alan."

"Ah," said Alice. "You mustn't determine that you can do it all
yourself! There will be the doctor and the wound!"

Alexander took her hands and held them. "You are a fine philosopher!
Where is Strickland?"

"Helping Aunt Grizel with accounts. Do you want him?"

"When you go. But not for a long while if you will stay."

Alice regarded him with her mother's shrewdness. "Oh, Glenfernie, for
all you've traveled and are so learned, it's not me nor Mr.
Strickland, but the moon now that you're wanting! I don't know what
your moon is, but it's the moon!"

Alexander laughed. "And is not the moon a beautiful thing?"

"The books say that it is cold and almost dead, wrinkled and ashen.
But I've got to go," said Alice, "and I'll send you Mr. Strickland."

Strickland came presently. "You look much stronger this morning,
Glenfernie. I'm glad of that! Shall I read to you, or write?"

"Read, I think. My eyes dazzle still when I try. Some strong old
thing--the Plutarch there. Read the _Brutus_."

Strickland read. He thought that now Alexander listened, and that now
he had traveled afar. The minutes passed. The flowers smelled sweetly,
murmuring sounds came in the open windows. Bran scratched at the door
and was admitted. Far off, Alice's voice was heard singing. Strickland
read on. The laird of Glenfernie was not at Rome, in the Capitol, by
Pompey's statue. He walked with Elspeth Barrow the feathery green
glen.

Davie appeared in the door. "A letter, sir, come post." He brought it
to Glenfernie's outstretched hand.

"From Edinburgh--from Jamie," said the latter.

Strickland laid down his book and moved to the window. Standing there,
his eyes upon the great cedar, massive and tall as though it would
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