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?"
"I believe so."
"You're a good Yankee, Kay. You couldn't be a good Yankee if you treated Scotch custom with contempt.... This jam is delicious. And oh, such scones!"
"When we go to Edinburgh we'll tea on Princess Street," he remarked. "It's there you'll fall for the Scotch cakes, Yellow-hair."
"I've already fallen for everything Scotch," she remarked demurely.
"Ah, wait! This Scotland is no strange land to good Americans. It's a bonnie, sweet, clean bit of earth made by God out of the same batch he used for our own world of the West. Oh, Yellow-hair, I mind the first day I ever saw Scotland. 'Twas across Princess Street--across acres of Madonna lilies in that lovely foreland behind which the Rock lifted skyward with Edinburgh Castle atop made out of grey silver slag! It was a brave sight, Yellow-hair. I never loved America more than at that moment when, in my heart, I married her to Scotland."