Three weeks ago Carrie would have been thrilled by the thought of having such an ancestor, but just now her mind was concentrated upon the present. It had been made clear during her last visit to Knocknacolly that Alan Macmillan was in love with Myrtle. If it had been a case of which of the two of them he fancied for a summertime flirtation she would have been jealous at his choice of Myrtle, but if he had really fallen in love jealousy was out of the question, and she intended to show herself worthy of her membership of the Scottish Brotherhood of Action by doing all she could to help him. Having made up her mind accordingly, she was not well pleased to notice the amount of attention Myrtle was allowing Young Ben Nevis to pay her. It was obvious she was not in the least in love with him, and her own MacDonald blood did not urge her to do anything to help in bringing about such a match. On the other hand, she fancied Myrtle might easily fall in love with Alan Macmillan, and if she did she was determined to promote that match. She would persuade Chester to give Myrtle the Keep of Knocknacolly as a wedding-present and she and Alan could preside there together over the accouchement of Scotland’s rebirth. Carrie felt as noble as Sydney Carton when on the Wednesday of that week she asked Myrtle to come with her to Knocknacolly and fetch James Buchanan with the deeds.

“I can’t, Carrie. I’ve promised Hector to go fishing with him.”

“Fishing for what? Compliments?”

“No, fishing for fishes.”

“You haven’t seen Alan Macmillan since he came back,” Carrie remarked, eyeing her sister-in-law keenly.

“I know, but Hector’s going back to India on Friday.”

“And you want to see if you can make him propose to you before he goes, just for the pleasure of refusing him?”

“You know, angel child, there are moments when I wish my dearly loved brother had never met you,” said Myrtle.

“Oh, you do?”

“I certainly do.”

“Myrtle! Myrtle!” sounded the loud bark of Young Ben Nevis. “Oh, there you are! Look here, we ought to be starting. I’m going to use a Redwinged Biffer this afternoon.”

“What’s that? A new cocktail?”

Hector guffawed merrily.

“No, no; it’s the best fly for Loch Hoch. Always use Redwinged Biffers there. But I’ll take two or three Blue Spankers as well, because if they won’t look at a Redwinged Biffer, that’s the time to try ’em either with a Blue Spanker or a Smith’s Zigzag Nonpareil. Iain! Iain!”

“What is it?”

“Have you got any Zigzag Nonpareils? Myrtle and I are tootling over to Loch Hoch, and I haven’t one left.”

“Here you are,” growled Mary, detaching a couple of gaudy flies and handing them to her brother.