“I’m against that, James, don’t forget,” said the bard sternly. “It’s pandering to words, and we can’t afford to waste any energy on words.”

“Well, whether I’m admitted to your secret society or not,” said Carrie, “I’d like to make a voluntary donation right away. There’s no rule against that, I hope.”

“No, there’s no rule against that,” James Buchanan admitted.

Carrie took out her vanity bag, pressed a spring, and from behind the mirror produced a hundred-dollar bill, which she offered to James. He looked at it, and his eyes were suddenly glazed as though by a well-timed upper cut.

“Losh, Alan,” he murmured, “we’ll be able to …” He put a hand up to his brow as if to shut out the too dazzling prospect conjured by this hundred-dollar bill. Then he turned to Carrie. “But, look here, Mistress Royde, this is too much, at any rate before you’re a member. We won’t be able to convene the Inner Council before the end of next month at the earliest.”

“Oh, dear! Why, I’ll probably be back in America by then,” Carrie sighed.

“I think we ought to take the responsibility of admitting Mistress Royde ourselves, James,” said the bard.

“But we’re not a quorum, Alan.”

“This is a clear case for poetic action, in my opinion.”

“If we even had a third,” James Buchanan lamented.

“Well, we haven’t,” said Alan Macmillan. “And I’m positive this is a case for poetic action. If the rest of the Inner Council make a row about it I’ll dear out of the S.B.A. and start another society.”

“Look here, Alan, if Mistress Royde doesn’t mind I’d like to talk the matter over with you alone,” James suggested.

“Sure,” said Carrie. “I’ll walk back to where you found me by the ruins of my great-great-grandfather’s cottage and you can come along and tell me what you’ve decided.” She smiled at the young men. “Somehow I feel you’ll discover a way.”

Carrie’s presentiment was right. She had hardly been seated ten minutes on the knoll where she had fallen asleep after lunch than the red and yellow of the Macmillan and the rainbow of the Buchanan tartan came flashing down Glenbristle’s grass-grown rocky road.

“Well?” she asked when the young men rejoined her.

“We’re taking it upon ourselves to admit you to the Scottish Brotherhood of Action,” Alan Macmillan announced gravely. “Will you please repeat the oath after me?”

“I think that’s a very wonderful oath,” Carrie declared when she had echoed the bard’s words and been initiated into the secret sign and countersign by which members of the Brotherhood recognized one another. “Did you compose that oath, Alan?”

“Yes, I composed it, Mistress Royde,” said the bard modestly.