of the Congregation, followed Prince Charlie to Culloden, and were
High Church and Tory to the last drop of their blood. Ludovic Gordon
left Harrow with the reputation of a classic, and had expected to be
first at Edinboro'. It was Gordon, in fact, that Domsie feared in
the great war, but he proved second to Marget's son, and being of
the breed of Prince Jonathan, which is the same the world over, he
came to love our David as his own soul. The other, a dark little
man, with a quick, fiery eye, was a Western Celt, who had worried
his way from a fishing croft in Barra to be an easy first in
Philosophy at Edinboro', and George and Ronald Maclean were as
brothers because there is nothing so different as Scottish and
Highland blood.

"Maister Gordon," said Marget, "this is George's Homer, and he bade
me tell you that he coonted yir freendship ain o' the gifts o' God."

For a brief space Gordon was silent, and, when he spoke, his voice
sounded strange in that room.

"Your son was the finest scholar of my time, and a very perfect
gentleman. He was also my true friend, and I pray God to console his
mother." And Ludovic Gordon bowed low over Marget's worn hand as if
she had been a queen.

Marget lifted Plato, and it seemed to me that day as if the dignity
of our Lady of Sorrows had fallen upon her.

"This is the buik George chose for you, Maister Maclean, for he aye
said to me ye hed been a prophet and shown him mony deep things."