



Produced by Al Haines.


                              THE LAST OF
                               THEIR RACE


                                   BY
                             ANNIE S. SWAN



                      HODDER AND STOUGHTON LIMITED
                                 LONDON
                                  1911




DONALD AND MARY

"For ours beyond the gate,
The deep things, the untold,
We only wait."



  _Made and Printed in Great Britain for Hodder & Stoughton, Limited_
      _By C. Tinling & Co., Ltd., Liverpool, London and Prescot._




                                CONTENTS


                               CHAPTER I

THE INDIAN MAIL

                               CHAPTER II

THE OLD HOME

                              CHAPTER III

ISLA TAKES ACTION

                               CHAPTER IV

THE AMERICANS

                               CHAPTER V

THE BRIDGE BUILDERS

                               CHAPTER VI

THE HOPE OF ACHREE

                              CHAPTER VII

THE HOME-COMING

                              CHAPTER VIII

MALCOLM'S PROSPECTS

                               CHAPTER IX

THE MESSENGER

                               CHAPTER X

THE HOUSE OF WOE

                               CHAPTER XI

VIVIEN

                              CHAPTER XII

THE HAND IN THE DARK

                              CHAPTER XIII

THE PASSING OF MACKINNON

                              CHAPTER XIV

FAMILY COUNSELS

                               CHAPTER XV

SETTLING DOWN

                              CHAPTER XVI

THE PURPLE LADY

                              CHAPTER XVII

HER TRUE FRIENDS

                             CHAPTER XVIII

GOOD-BYE TO GLENOGLE

                              CHAPTER XIX

IN THE LONDON TRAIN

                               CHAPTER XX

THE REALITY OF THINGS

                              CHAPTER XXI

THE MARKET PLACE

                              CHAPTER XXII

MR. AND MRS. BODLEY-CHARD

                             CHAPTER XXIII

AT CROSS PURPOSES

                              CHAPTER XXIV

THE CHAMPION

                              CHAPTER XXV

THE ARCH-PLOTTERS

                              CHAPTER XXVI

THE LURE OF VIVIEN

                             CHAPTER XXVII

THE CALL

                             CHAPTER XXVIII

WITH HASTENING FEET

                              CHAPTER XXIX

THE LAST LEAF ON THE TREE




                               CHAPTER I

                            THE INDIAN MAIL


Isla Mackinnon came out from the narrow doorway of the Castle of Achree,
and stood for a moment on the broad step, worn by the feet of
generations, while she thoughtfully drew on a pair of shabby, old
leather gloves with gauntlets which came well up her slender arms. Hers
were small, fine, capable hands, in which at that moment, though she
knew it not, lay the whole destiny of Achree.  Its very existence was to
be threatened that cool, clear March day, and there was none but Isla to
step into the breach.

She did not look incompetent; nay, about her there was a fine strength
and courage, in her wide grey-blue eyes an undaunted spirit.

It was a spirit that had had much to try its quality in her
six-and-twenty years of life, for half of which, at least, she had been
the chief buttress and hope of the house of her fathers.

She looked her age, though her figure was very slender and straight.
The years that had brought her womanhood had left her the heart of a
child.  It looked out from the clear eyes under the delicate lashes, it
was in the slightly downward curves of the small sensitive mouth that
had not had sufficient occasion for smiles to bring out all its
sweetness.

Her hair, under the small tweed hat turned up at the brim with a
pheasant's wing, was a clear brown, with here and there a touch of the
sun inclining it to ruddy gold.  She wore a short skirt of Harris tweed,
leather-bound, and a woollen coat of her own knitting, a pair of brown
brogues well fitted to her shapely feet, and under her arm she had a
shepherd's crook with a whistle at the end of it.

Presently, when its clear, low call broke the stillness of the morning,
three dogs came bounding from some region beyond the house, betraying a
wild excitement which even her remonstrance could not keep in check.

"Down, Murdo boy, and don't nip Bruce's ear again, or back you go to the
stable.  Janet, you silly old woman, at your time of life you ought to
have more sense.  Well then, off you go!"

The big deer-hound, the fat, glossy, sable collie, and the small, wiry
Aberdeen lady who rejoiced in the sober name of Janet, thus admonished,
bounded before her down the drive between the laurel and the pine trees,
barking joyously as was their wont.

About fifty yards from the house the carriage-way took a sharp turn, so
that the next few steps hid all except the cold slate roof and the
pinnacles of the little round towers which mark that particular style of
architecture called the Scottish baronial.

The old Castle of Achree was considered one of the best examples of it
in the country, and it certainly was picturesque, if a little
"ill-convenient," as the country-folk had it.  It was a large mansion of
sorts, but totally unsuited to the needs of a family and almost
completely devoid of all those modern conveniences which, in these days,
every artisan has at his command.

It was so cut up by winding stairs and queer little passages that there
was scarcely a room of decent dimensions within its walls.  It was full
of legend, of tragic memories, and did not even lack the ghost, a mailed
and headless warrior who haunted the dungeon-room where he had been done
to death.

It was whitewashed or harled, but looked sadly in need of the washer's
brush.  The rains of many a year had soddened and discoloured it, while,
here and there, at angles specially exposed, there were green patches
where the moss and lichen clung.

Yet it made a picture of indescribable beauty, not untouched with
pathos, as the cradle of every great race must be, its history woven in
with its very stones. People came from far and near to see it, and many
artists had lingered enchanted over its picturesque detail.  It stood on
a small, green plateau facing south, sheltered at the back by the
pine-clad hill of Creagh, which stood, like a sentinel, guarding the
great moor of Creagh that stretched away in the distance till it joined
the lands of Breadalbane towards Loch Tay.

With the moor of Creagh the Mackinnon property ended on that side, but
it was still a goodly-sized estate, with shooting of some value, though
it had been cut down to as narrow dimensions as the extravagance of some
of the Mackinnons had dared to cut it.  But never, never had Achree been
in such dire straits as now.

When Isla left the gateway beside the little lodge and turned down the
beautiful road, she lifted her head and took a long deep breath.  For
the morning air was good, though there was a nip of frost in it, and the
red sun lay warm and kindly on the clear summit of Ben Voirlich, of
which, at that point, an exquisite view could be obtained, though it was
in the next few steps lost again.  The ruddy glow was reflected in the
clear waters of Loch Earn, and altogether the scene was one of
incomparable beauty, and it was knit into the very fibre of Isla
Mackinnon's being.  It was her home, and the people were her own.  She
had known none other.

A few rare trips to London when her cousins, the richer Barras
Mackinnons, had had a house for the season, with occasional visits to
them at their home in one of the islands of the western seas, comprised
her whole knowledge of the world outside her own glen. But beyond that
she had neither asked nor desired anything else.  The things she most
passionately desired and prayed for--peace for Achree and decent comfort
in which to live--were denied her.  She lived in hope, however; but this
day was to see its utter quenching, so far as any earthly intelligence
could predict.

The dogs, gambolling in front, knew their destination--the Earn village;
that is, if they did not meet David Bain with the post-gig on the road.

For more than a year now it had been Isla's custom to meet the postman
for the purpose of intercepting any letters which it might not be wise
to let her father see. In this simple act a great part of the tragedy of
Achree may be apprehended.  For even such innocent deception was foreign
to the soul and heart of Isla Mackinnon, which was as clear and true as
the waters of her own loch.

She saw the fat, white pony presently, standing before the dry-stone
<DW18> that shut in the garden of Darrach farm-house from the road, and
she quickened her steps in order that she might reach it before he
started out again, and might thus save him another stop on the steep
ascent.  That act was natural to her, if you like; for if at any time by
her thought or speech or act she could help another, then she was happy
indeed.

But David of the grim face and the silent tongue had got into the gig
again, and the fat pony had ambled off before she could stop him.
Presently they met where a little water-course merrily crossed the
gravelly road, seeking