s for him since he had
thoroughly grown up, because in the process of becoming a millionaire he
had ceased to believe in any kind of dreams. Friendships and sympathies
he had vainly longed for in his poverty could be his for the asking or
even without the asking now; and that was the reason he did not feel
they were worth having. He had no use in his heart for little brothers
and sisters of the rich, and in his experienced hardness he was
sometimes unjust to kindly people. But he had liked the novels of Aline
West and Basil Norman before he met the two popular Canadian authors on
shipboard; and learning that they planned to write a "Scotch book," it
had occurred to him that they might all three go about sight-seeing
together. His rest cure had ceased to bore him in prospect; he had
thought with some pleasure of showing Aline Dunelin Castle and the
island of Dhrum. Suddenly, however, Aline's own words damped the
prospect as with a douche of cold water.

She was perfectly right, too. It would be a very good plan to place the
waif he had picked up as soon as possible in the care of a mother, even
such an extraordinary, incredible mother as Mrs. "Bal" MacDonald: a good
plan for the girl's sake, and for everybody's sake, because it was
arranged to start for Scotland the day after to-morrow. Still, Barrie's
impromptu ode to the heather moon had for a moment irradiated his mind
with a light such as had not shone for Somerled on land or sea since he
had become rich enough to afford the most expensive lighting. Then as
quickly it had died down. He saw himself spinning agreeably through
Scottish scenes with Mrs. West and her brother, and suddenly,
treacherously, he felt that to spin agreeably was not enough to satisfy
him, that it was unworthy of wondrous golden light on purple hills of
high romance. He wanted something more, something altogether different,
and the plans which had contented him looked dull as ditchwater in the
fading glamour. He himself looked dull. Aline looked dull, and for a
moment he almost disliked her sweet blue eyes, her pretty, ever gentle
smile, behind which must lurk some true feeling, or she could not write
those delicately charming books.

"And don't you think, too," Aline urged kindly, "that we ought to put
Miss MacDonald's poor grandmother out of her misery? I might write a
note to--Hillard House, I think she said?--explaining--er--what has
happened, as well--as well as I could? Let me see, what _w