Three Boys Part 75

Kenneth was silent, and sat gazing dreamily before him, while Max watched him curiously.

"And I hope--I shall see you there often," said Max.

"Eh? what?" said Kenneth, flus.h.i.+ng and frowning. "No, no, it's well meant, Max, old chap, but I couldn't do it. I couldn't go there again."

There was another silence, and, to Kenneth's great relief, Max rose and left the room without a word.

"Poor old chap!" said Kenneth; "I've offended him, I suppose. I did not mean to. It was very blundering and foolish of him, though, to propose such a thing."

He sat gazing before him sternly.

"Poor old Dunroe!" he said sadly. "How I can see the dear old place again, with its rocks all golden-ruddy weed, its s.h.i.+mmering sea, and the distant blue mountains. Ah, what days those were! I should like to see the dear old place again. But no, no! I couldn't go and stay there now."

He leaped up, and strode once or twice up and down the room.

"Here, what a pretty host I am! I must fetch him down. I've hurt him, and he always was such a sensitive chap."

He was half across the room when Max returned, with a large leather lock-up folio under his arm.

"Oh, you needn't have fetched that down," said Kenneth. "Plenty of writing materials here. But you are not going to write to-night?"

"No, not to-night," said Max quietly, taking a little silver key from off his watch-chain, and opening the folio, which was made with a couple of very large pockets. "Do you take any interest in old writings?"

"Not a bit, my boy. I've had enough to do to study up and pa.s.s my exams. But what have you got there?"

"The old mortgage and the t.i.tle-deeds of Dunroe," said Max quietly.

"But--I say, old fellow, don't do that. I'm pretty hard, but the name of Dunroe always gives me a choky feeling in the throat."

"So it does me, Ken, old fellow!" cried Max, with his voice trembling.

"Then why--?"

"Wait a moment. Do you remember how we two were gradually drawn together up there in the north?"

"Yes, of course," said Kenneth huskily.

"I never had a brother, Ken, and I used to feel at last that I had found one in you."

"And I used to think something of the kind, but--"

"Why not, Ken?"--Max was holding out his hand.

Kenneth stood a moment looking in his eyes, and then grasped the extended hand firmly.

"Yes," he cried; "why not? It's the same old Max after all."

"Then you'll act as a brother to me if I ever ask you to help me in some critical point of my life?"

"Indeed I will."

"Then help me now, Ken, as a brother should, to make a great restoration, and me a happier man."

"I--I don't understand," cried Kenneth wonderingly. "What do you mean?"

"Your father's while he lives, Ken; yours after as his heir."

"Are you mad, Max?"

"Yes, with delight, old fellow!" he cried, as he forced the folio and its contents into his old friend's hands.

"But--"

"Not another word. My father left me very rich, and in a codicil to his will he said he hoped I should make good use of the wealth he left me, and that it might prove a greater source of happiness to me than it had been to him."

"But, Max--"

"I think he would approve of what I am doing now; and if you do not ask me down for a month or two every year, I'll say you are not the Ken Mackhai I used to know."

The objections to and protestations against Max Blande's munificent gift were long and continued. The Mackhai was summoned over from Baden, and he declared it to be impossible.

But all was arranged at last, and Max's fortune suffered very little by his generosity.

The Mackhais took possession of the old home once again, and Max Blande was present at the rejoicings; when fires were lit on each of the four old towers, when there was a feast for all comers, and Tavish went through the evolutions of the sword-dance, while torches were held around, and old Donald, who had to sit to play, poured feebly forth some of his favourite airs.

Max even felt that the pipes were bearable that night, as he poured out some whisky for the ancient piper, and received his blessings now instead of a furious curse.

And somehow, Max used to declare to Ken, he found ten times more enjoyment in the place now than if it had been his own.

And time went on once more.

"Remember?" said a bronzed cavalry officer to a tall, sedate-looking young country gentleman, as they sat together on the deck of The Mackhai's yacht, gliding slowly up the great sea loch.

"Do I remember what?"

"Where I picked you up from the steamer when you first came down?"

"To be sure I do, Ken, old fellow! Why, it must have been just here.

Why, Ken, that's fifteen years ago!"

"Exactly, almost to a month. And I've been all around the world since then. How does it make you feel?"

"How?" cried Max, laying his hand upon the other's shoulder; "as if we were boys again. And you?"

"As if the memories of boyhood can never die."

THE END.