ber always what the Law is.

What I intended to say at first was merely that it was not by chance
that I climbed to the shelf in the library that afternoon and pushed
aside the books hiding the old manuscript which told the real story of
Dark Malcolm of the Glen and Wee Brown Elspeth. It seemed like chance
when it happened, but it was really the first step toward my finding out
the strange, beautiful thing I knew soon afterward.

From the beginning of my friendship with the MacNairns I had hoped they
would come and stay with me at Muircarrie. When they both seemed to
feel such interest in all I told them of it, and not to mind its wild
remoteness, I took courage and asked them if they would come to me. Most
people are bored by the prospect of life in a feudal castle, howsoever
picturesquely it is set in a place where there are no neighbors to count
on. Its ancient stateliness is too dull. But the MacNairns were more
allured by what Muircarrie offered than they were by other and more
brilliant invitations. So when I went back to the castle I was only to
be alone a week before they followed me.

Jean and Angus were quite happy in their quiet way when I told them
who I was expecting. They knew how glad I was myself. Jean was full of
silent pleasure as she arranged the rooms I had chosen for my guests,
rooms which had the most sweeping view of the moor. Angus knew that Mr.
MacNairn would love the library, and he hovered about consulting his
catalogues and looking over his shelves, taking down volumes here and
there, holding them tenderly in his long, bony old hand as he dipped
into them. He made notes of the manuscripts and books he thought Mr.
MacNairn would feel the deepest interest in. He loved his library with
all his being, and I knew he looked forward to talking to a man who
would care for it in the same way.

He had been going over one of the highest shelves one day and had left
his step-ladder leaning against it when he went elsewhere. It was when
I mounted the steps, as I often did when he left them, that I came
upon the manuscript which related the old story of Dark Malcolm and his
child. It had been pushed behind some volumes, and I took it out because
it looked so old and yellow. And I opened at once at the page where the
tale began.

At first I stood reading, and then I sat down on the broad top of the
ladder and forgot everything. It was a savage history of ferocious hate
and barbarous reprisals. It had b