He made his way astern, and took off and waved his bonnet.

The effect was electrical. Kenneth sprang up and waved his bonnet in return, and, a few minutes later, Scoodrach, whose ire had pa.s.sed away, began to wave his, and Max stood watching and wondering why they did not hoist the sail and return.

And then he did not wonder, but stood leaning over the rail, watching the boat grow less and the figures in her smaller, till they seemed to die away in the immensity of the great sea.

But Max did not move even then. His heart was full, and it was with a sensation of sorrow and despondency such as he had never felt before that the rest of the journey was made, boat changed for train, and finally, and with a reluctance such as he could not have believed possible, he reached London, and stood once more before his father, who met him coolly enough, with,--

"Well, Max, back again?"

"Yes, father; and I want to ask you something about Dunroe."

"Humph!" said the old lawyer, about half an hour later; "so you think like that, do you, Max?"

"Yes, father."

"Well, you'll grow older and wiser some day."

"But you will not turn them out?"

"When I want to take you into counsel, Master Max, I shall do so. Now please understand this once for all."

"Yes, father?"

"Never mention the names of the Mackhais again."

CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR.

RESt.i.tUTION.

Time glided on, and Mr Andrew Blande's plans did not seem to turn out quite as he wished. The customary legal proceedings were got through, and he became full possessor of Dunroe, with the right, as the deeds said, to enjoy these rights. But he was a very old man, one who had married late in life, to find that he had made a mistake, for the marriage was hurried on by the lady's friends on account of his wealth, and the lady who became his wife lived a somewhat sad life, and died when her son Max was ten years old.

To make Max happy, his father had been in the habit of letting him lead a sedentary life, and of telling him how rich he would some day be, and had gone on saving and h.o.a.rding, and gaining possession of estate after estate.

But when he had obtained Dunroe, he did not enjoy it. He went down once to stay there, but he never did so again; and finding, in spite of all he could say, that Max would not enjoy it either, and seemed to have a determined objection to become a Scottish country gentleman, he placed the estate in the hands of his agent to let, and it was not long before a tenant was found for the beautiful old place.

As the years glided on, Max went to college, and kept up a regular correspondence with Kenneth, who, as soon as it could be managed after their leaving Dunroe, went to Sandhurst, his father contenting himself with quiet chambers in town near his club.

But Max and Kenneth did not meet; the troubles at Dunroe seemed to keep them separate. Still, there was always a feeling on the part of both that some day they would be the best of friends once more, and the money question be something that was as good as forgotten.

One day, Max, who had six months previously been summoned to London on very important business, received a letter which had followed him from Cambridge to the dingy old house in Lincoln's Inn.

The young man's face flushed as he opened and read the long epistle, whose purport was that The Mackhai had gone to Baden-Baden for a couple of months, that the writer was alone at his father's chambers, and asking Max to renew some of their old friendly feeling by coming to stay with him for a few days.

Six months before, Max would have declined at once, but now he wrote accepting the invitation with alacrity.

It was for the next day but one, and in due course Max drove up with his portmanteau, and was ushered by a red-haired, curly-headed footman to Kenneth's room.

"The maister's not in," said the footman; "but she was to--I was to say that he'd soon be pack--back, and--"

"Why, Scoody, I didn't know you," cried Max. "How you have grown!"

"Yes, she's--I mean, sir, I have grown a good deal and master says I haven't done."

There was the rattle of a latch-key in the outer door, and a tall, handsome young fellow, thoroughly soldierly-looking in every point, strode into the room.

"Max, old chap!" he cried, catching his hands and standing shaking them heartily. "Why, what a great--I say, what a beard."

"And you six feet!"

"No, no--five feet ten."

"And moustached, and a regular dragoon!"

"How did you know that?"

"Know that?"

"Yes; I've just got my commission in the Thirtieth Dragoons."

"I congratulate you!" cried Max. "'Full many a shot at random sent,'

etcetera."

"Then you did not know? Well, never mind that; only it isn't all pleasure. The governor says it is too expensive a service for me to go in. The old fellow's not very flush of money, you see."

"Indeed?" said Max quietly.

"Well, never mind that either. But I say, what are you going in for-- Church or Law?"

"Neither. I think I shall settle down as a country gentleman."

"Yes, of course," said Kenneth hastily. "Here, let me show you your room. We'll have a snug _tete-a-tete_ dinner, and talk about our old fishing days, and the boating."

"Yes," cried Max; "and the fishing and boating to come."

"Ah!" said Kenneth thoughtfully; and the conversation drifted off into minor matters, and about Kenneth's prospects as a soldier.

The _tete-a-tete_ dinner was eaten, and they became as it were three boys again, Scoodrach trying to look very sedate, but his cheeks shining and eyes flashing as he listened, while pretending to be busy over his work. Then at last the young men were seated together over their coffee, and the conversation took a fresh turn.

"My father?" said Kenneth, in answer to a question; "oh, very well and jolly. I say, do you two go down much to--to Dunroe?"

"No," said Max huskily. "You do not seem to know my father has been dead these six months."

"I beg your pardon, Max, old fellow. I ought to have known. Shall you go down to Dunroe much now?"

"I hope so--often," said Max.