He stood in a brown study until there was a tap at the door.  “Come in!”

Alice entered, bearing before her a bowl of flowers of all fair hues and shapes.  She herself was like a bright, strong, winsome flower.  “To make your room look bonny!” she said, and placed the bowl upon the table.  To do so she pushed aside the books.  “What a withered, snuff-brown lot!  Won’t you be glad when you are back in the keep with all the books?”

Glenfernie, wrapped in a brown gown, came with his stick back to the great chair before the books.  “Bonny—­they are bonny!” he said and touched the flowers.  “I’ve set a week from to-day to be dressed and out of this and back to the keep.  Another week, and I shall ride Black Alan.”

“Ah,” said Alice.  “You mustn’t determine that you can do it all yourself!  There will be the doctor and the wound!”

Alexander took her hands and held them.  “You are a fine philosopher!  Where is Strickland?”

“Helping Aunt Grizel with accounts.  Do you want him?”

“When you go.  But not for a long while if you will stay.”

Alice regarded him with her mother’s shrewdness.  “Oh, Glenfernie, for all you’ve traveled and are so learned, it’s not me nor Mr. Strickland, but the moon now that you’re wanting!  I don’t know what your moon is, but it’s the moon!”

Alexander laughed.  “And is not the moon a beautiful thing?”

“The books say that it is cold and almost dead, wrinkled and ashen.  But I’ve got to go,” said Alice, “and I’ll send you Mr. Strickland.”

Strickland came presently.  “You look much stronger this morning, Glenfernie.  I’m glad of that!  Shall I read to you, or write?”

“Read, I think.  My eyes dazzle still when I try.  Some strong old thing—­the Plutarch there.  Read the Brutus.”

Strickland read.  He thought that now Alexander listened, and that now he had traveled afar.  The minutes passed.  The flowers smelled sweetly, murmuring sounds came in the open windows.  Bran scratched at the door and was admitted.  Far off, Alice’s voice was heard singing.  Strickland read on.  The laird of Glenfernie was not at Rome, in the Capitol, by Pompey’s statue.  He walked with Elspeth Barrow the feathery green glen.

Davie appeared in the door.  “A letter, sir, come post.”  He brought it to Glenfernie’s outstretched hand.

“From Edinburgh—­from Jamie,” said the latter.

Strickland laid down his book and moved to the window.  Standing there, his eyes upon the great cedar, massive and tall as though it would build a tower to heaven, his mind left Brutus, Caesar, and Cassius, and played somewhat idly over the British Isles.  He was recalled by an exclamation, not loud, but so intense and fierce that it startled like a meteor of the night.  He turned.  Glenfernie sat still in his great chair, but his features were changed, his mouth working, his eyes shooting light.  Strickland advanced toward him.