Out of those depths she had dragged what remained of him—­not for his own sake perhaps—­not for his beaux-yeux—­but to save him for the service which his country demanded of him.

She had fought for him—­endured, struggled spiritually, mentally, bodily to wrench him out of the coma where drink had left him with a stunned brain and crippled will.

And now, believing in her work, trusting, confident, she had just said to him that what he told her was sufficient security for her.  And on his word that all was well she had calmly composed herself for sleep as though all the dead chieftains of Isla stood on guard with naked claymores!  Nothing in all his life had ever so thrilled him as this girl’s confidence.

And, as he entered his room, he knew that within him the accursed thing that had been, lay dead forever.

He was standing in the walled garden switching a limber trout-rod when Miss Erith came upon him next morning,—­a tall straight young man in his kilts, supple and elegant as the lancewood rod he was testing.

Conscious of a presence behind him he turned, came toward her in the sunlight, the sun crisping his short hair.  And in his pleasant level eyes the girl saw what had happened—­what she had wrought—­that this young man had come into his own again—­into his right mind and his manhood—­and that he had resumed his place among his fellow men and peers.

He greeted her seriously, almost formally; and the girl, excited and a little upset by the sudden realisation of his victory and hers, laughed when he called her “Miss Erith.”

“You called me Yellow-hair last night,” she said.  “I called you Kay.  Don’t you want it so?”

“Yes,” he said reddening, understanding that it was her final recognition of a man who had definitely “come back.”

Miss Erith was very lovely as she stood there in the garden whither breakfast was fetched immediately and laid out on a sturdy green garden-table—­porridge, coffee, scones, jam, and an egg.

Chipping the latter she let her golden-hazel eyes rest at moments upon the young fellow seated opposite.  At other moments, sipping her coffee or buttering a scone, she glanced about her at the new grass starred with daisies, at the daffodils, the slim young fruit-trees,—­and up at the old white facade of the ancient abode of the Lairds of Isla.

“Why the white flag up there, Kay?” she inquired, glancing aloft.

He laughed, but flushed a little.  “Yankee that I am,” he admitted, “I seem to be Scot enough to observe the prejudices and folk-ways of my forebears.”

“Is it your clan flag?”

“Bratach Bhan Chlaun Aoidh,” he said smilingly.  “The White Banner of the McKays.”

“Good!  And what may that be—­that bunch of weed you wear in your button-hole?” Again the young fellow laughed:  “Seasgan or Cuilc—­in Gaelic—­just reed-grass, Miss Yellow-hair.”

“Your clan badge?”