Malcolm’s saying that “if my lord taks a thing into his heid he’ll do’t, ye ken,” was as true now as when the earl was a little boy.

Mr. Mentieth hardly knew how the thing was accomplished-indeed, he had rather opposed it, believing the mere physical impediments to his ward’s overlooking his own affairs were insurmountable; but Lord Cairnforth contrived in the course of a day or two to initiate himself very fairly in all the business attendant upon the “term;” to find out the exact extent and divisions of his property, and to whom it was feued.  And on term-day he proposed, though with an evident effort which touched the old lawyer deeply, to sit beside Mr. Menteith while the tenants were paying their rents, so as to become personally known to each of them.

Many of these, like Dougal Mac Dougal, were over come with surprise, nay, something more painful than surprise, at the sight of the small figure which was the last descendant of the noble Earls of Cairnforth, and with whom the stalwart father and the fair young mother looking down from the pictured walls, contrasted so piteously; but after the first shock was over they carried away only the remembrance of his sweet, grave face, and his intelligent and pertinent observations, indicating a shrewdness for which even Mr. Menteith was unprepared.  When he owned this, after business was done, the young earl smiled, evidently much gratified.

“Yes, I don’t think they can say of me that I’m ‘no a’ there!” Also he that evening confessed to Helen that he found “business” nearly as interesting as Greek and Latin, perhaps even more so, for there was something human in it, something which drew one closer to one’s fellow-creatures, and benefited other people besides one’s own self.  “I think,” he added, “I should rather enjoy being what is called ’a good man of business.’”

He pleaded so hard for farther instruction in all pertaining to his estate that Mr. Menteith consented to spare two whole weeks out of his busy Edinburg life, during which Lord Cairnforth and he were shut up together for a great part of every day, investigating matters connected with the property, and other things which hitherto in the young man’s education had been entirely neglected.

“For,” said his guardian, sadly, “I own, I never thought of him as a young man-or as a man at all; nevertheless, he is one, and will always be.  That clear, cool head of his, just for brains, pure brains, is worth both his father’s and grandfather’s put together.”

And when Helen repeated this saying to Lord Cairnforth, he smiled his exceedingly bright smile, and was more cheerful, joyous, for days after.

On Mr. Menteith’s return home, he sent back to the Castle one of his old clerks, who had been acquainted with the Cairnforth affairs for nearly half a century; he also was astonished at the capacity which the young earl showed.  Of course, physically, he was entirely helpless; the little forked stick was still in continual requisition; nor could he write except with much difficulty; but he had the faculty of arrangement and order, and the rare power-rarer than is supposed-of guiding and governing, so that what he could not do himself he could direct others how to do, and thus attain his end so perfectly, that even those who knew him best were oftentimes actually amazed at the result he effected.

Then he enjoyed his work; took such an interest in the plans for feuing land along the loch-side, and the sort of houses that was to be built upon each feu, the roads he would have to make, and especially in the grand wooden pier which, by Mr. Menteith’s advice, was shortly to be erected in lieu of the little quay of stones at the ferry, which had hitherto served as Cairnforth’s chief link with the outside world.

If Mr. Cardross and Helen grieved a little over this advancing tide of civilization, which might soon sweep away many things old and dear from the shores of beautiful Loch Beg, they grew reconciled when they saw the light in the earl’s eyes, and heard him talk with an interest and enthusiasm quite new to him of what he meant to do when he came of age.  Only in all his projects was one peculiarity rather uncommon in young heirs-the entire absence of any schemes for personal pleasure.  Conforts he had, of course; his faithful friends and servants took care that his condition should have every alleviation that wealth could furnish; but of enjoyments, after the fashion of youth, he planned nothing; for, indeed, what of them was left him to enjoy?

And so, faster than was usual, being so well filled with occupations, the weeks and months slipped by, until the important thirtieth of June, when Mr. Menteith’s term of guardianship would end, and a man’s free life and independent duties, so far as he could perform them, would legally begin for the Earl of Cairnforth.

There had been great consultations on this topic all along the two lochs, and beyond them, for Dougal Mac Dougal had carried his story of the earl and his goodness to the extreme verge of the Cairnforth territory.  Throughout June the Manse was weekly haunted by tenants arriving from all quarters to consult the minister, the universal referee, as to how best they could celebrate the event, which, whenever it occurred, had for generations been kept gloriously in the little peninsula, though no case was known of any earl’s attaining his majority as being already Earl of Cairnforth.  The Montgomeries were usually a long-lived race, and their heirs rarely came to their titles till middle-aged fathers of families.

“But we maun hae grand doings this time, ye ken,” said an old farmer to the minister, “for I doubt there’ll ne’er be anither Earl o’ Cairnforth.”

Which fact every one seemed sorrowfully to recognize.  It was not only probable, but right, that in this Lord Cairnforth-so terribly afflicted-the long line should end.

As the day of the earl’s majority approached, the minister’s feelings were of such a mingled kind that he shrank from these demonstrations of joy, and rather repressed the warm loyalty which was springing up every where toward the young man.  But after taking counsel with Helen, who saw into things a little deeper than he did, Mr. Cardross decided that it was better all should be done exactly as if the present lord were not different from his forefathers, and that he should be helped both to act and to feel as like other people as possible.

Therefore, on a bright June morning, as bright as that of his sad birth-day and his mother’s death-day, twenty-one years before, the earl awoke to the sound of music playing-if the national pipes of the peninsula could be called music-underneath his window, and heard his good neighbors from the clachan, young and old, men, women, and bairns, uniting their voices in one hearty shout, wishing “A lang life and a merry ane” to the Earl of Cairnforth.

Whether or not the young man’s heart echoed the wish, who could tell?  It was among the solemn secrets which every human soul has to keep and ever must keep between itself and its Maker.

Very soon the earl appeared out of doors, wheeling himself along the terrace in his little chair, answering smilingly the congratulations of every body, and evidently enjoying the pleasant morning, the sunshine, and the scent of the flowers in what was still called “The countess’s garden.”  People notice afterward how very like he looked that day to his beautiful mother; and many a mother out of the clachan, who remembered the lady’s face still, and how, during her few brief months of married happiness and hope, she used to stop her pretty pony-carriage to notice every poor woman’s baby she chanced to pass-many of these now regarded pitifully and tenderly her only son, the last heir of the last Countess of Cairnfoth.

Yet he certainly enjoyed himself, there could be no doubt of it; and when, later in the day, he discovered a conspiracy between the Castle, the Manse, and the clachan, which resulted in a grand feast on the lawn, he was highly delighted.

“All this for me!” he cried, almost childish in his pleasure.  “How good every body is to me!”

And he insisted on mixing with the little crowd, and seeing them sit down to their banquet, which they ate as if they had never eaten in their lives before, and drank-as Highlanders can drink, and Highlanders alone.  But, before the whisky began to grow dangerous, the oldest man among the tenantry, who declared that he could remember three Earls of Cairnfoth, proposed the health of this earl, which was received with acclamations long and loud, the pipers playing the family tune of “Montgomerie’s Reel,” which was chiefly notable for having neither beginning, middle, nor ending.

Lord Cairnforth bowed his head in acknowledgment.

“Ought not somebody to make a little speech of thanks to them?” whispered he to Helen, who stood close behind his chair.

“You should; and I think you could,” was her answer.

“Very well; I will try.”

And in his poor feeble voice, which trembled much, yet was distinct and clear, he said a few words, very short and simple, to the people near him.  He thanked them for all this merry-making in his honor, and said, “he was exceedingly happy that day.”  He told them he meant always to reside at Cairnforth, and to carry out all sorts of plans for the improvement of his estates, both for his tenants’ benefits and his own.  That he hoped to be both a just and kind landlord, working with and for his tenantry to the utmost of his power.

“That is,” he added, with a slight fall of the voice, “to the utmost of those few powers which it has pleased Heaven to give me.”

After this speech there was a full minute’s silence, tender, touching silence, and the arose a cheer, long and loud, such had rarely echoed through the little peninsula on the coming of age of any Lord Cairnforth.

When the tenantry had gone away to light bonfires on the hill-side, and perform many other feats of jubilation, a little dinner-party assembled in the large dining-room, which had been so long disused, for the earl always preferred the library, which was on a level with his bedroom, whence he could wheel himself in and out as he pleased.  To-day the family table was outspread, and the family plate glittered, and the family portraits stared down from the wall as the last Earl of Cairnforth moved-or rather was moved-slowly down the long room.  Malcolm was wheeling him to a side seat well sheltered and comfortable, when he said,

“Stop!  Remember I am twenty-one to-day.  I think I ought to take my seat at the head of my own table.”

Malcolm obeyed.  And thus, for the first time since the late earl’s death, the place-the master’s place-was filled.

“Mr. Cardross, will you say grace?”

The minister tried once-twice-thrice; but his voice failed him.  His tender heart, which had lived through so many losses, and this day saw all the past brought before him vivid as yesterday, entirely broke down.  Thereupon the earl, from his seat at the head of his own table, repeated simply and naturally the few words which every head of a household-as priest in his own family-may well say, “For these and all other mercies, Lord, make us thankful.”

After that, Mr. Menteith took snuff vehemently, and Mr. Cardross openly wiped his eyes.  But Helen’s, if not quite dry, were very bright.  Her woman’s heart, which looked beyond the pain of suffering into the beauty of suffering nobly endured, even as faith looks through “the grave and gate of death” into the glories of immortality-Helen’s heart was scarcely sad, but very glad and proud.

The day after Lord Cairnforth’s coming of age Mr. Menteith formally resigned his trust.  He had managed the property so successfully during the long minority that even he himself was surprised at the amount of money, both capital and income, which the earl was now master of, without restriction or reservation, and free from the control of any human being.

“Yes, my lord,” said he, when the young man seemed subdued and almost overcome by the extent of his own wealth, “it is really all your own.  You may make ducks and drakes of it, as the saying goes, as soon as ever you please.  You are accountable for it to no one-except One,” added the good, honest, religious man, now growing an old man, and a little gentler, grave, as well as a little more demonstrative than he had been twenty years before.

“Except One.  I know that; I hope I shall never forget it,” replied the Earl of Cairnforth.

And then they proceeded to wind up their business affairs.

“How strange it is,” observed the earl, when they had nearly concluded, “how very strange that I should be here in the world, an isolated human being, with not a single blood relation, not a soul who has any real claim upon me!”

“Certainly not-no claim whatsoever; and yet you are not quite without blood relations.”

Lord Cairnforth looked surprised.  “I always understood that I had no near kindred.”

’Of near kindred you have none.  But there are certain far-away cousins, of whom, for many reasons, I never told you, and begged Mr. Cardross not to tell you either.”

“I think I ought to have been told.”

Mr. Menteith explained his strong reasons for silence, such as the late lord’s unpleasant experience-and his own-of the Bruce family, and the necessity he saw for keeping his ward quite out of their association and their influence till his character was matured, and he was of age to judge for himself, and act for himself, concerning them.  All the more, because remote as their kinship was, and difficult to be proved, still, if proved, they would be undoubtedly his next heirs.

“My next heirs,” repeated the earl-“of course.  I must have an heir.  I wonder I never thought of that.  If I died, there must be somebody to succeed me in the title and estates.”

“Not in the title,” said Mr. Menteith, hesitating, for he saw it was opening a subject most difficult and painful, yet which must be opened sometime or other, and the old was too hones to shrink from so doing, if necessary.

“Why not the title?”

“It is entailed, and can be inherited in the direct male line only.”

“That is, it descends from father to son?”

“Exactly so.”

“I see,” said the young man, after a long pause.

“Then I am the last Earl of Cairnforth.”

There was no answer.  Mr. Menteith could not for his life have given one; besides, none seemed required.  The earl said it as if merely stating a fact beyond which there is no appeal, and neither expecting nor desiring any refutation or contradiction.

“Now,” Lord Cairnforth continued, suddenly changing the conversation, “let us speak once more of the Bruces, who, you say, might any day succeed to my fortune, and would probably make a very bad use of it.”

“I believe so; upon my conscience I do!” said Mr. Menteith, earnestly, “else I never should have felt justified in keeping them out of your way as I have done.”

“Who are they?  I mean, of what does the family consist?”

“An old man-Colonel Bruce he calls himself, and is known as such in every disreputable gambling town on the Continent; a long tribe of girls, and one son, eldest or youngest, I forget which, who was sent to India through some influence I used for your father’s sake, but who may be dead by now for aught I know.  Indeed, the utmost I have had to do with the family of late years has been paying the annuity granted them by the late earl, which I continued, not legally, but through charity, on trust that the present earl would never call me to account for the same.”

“Most certainly I never shall.”

“Then you will take my advice, and forgive my intruding upon you a little more of it?”

“Forgive?  I am thankful, my good old friend, for every wise word you say to me.”

Again the good lawyer hesitated:  “There is a subject, one exceedingly difficult to speak of, but it should be named, since you might not think of it yourself.  Lord Cairnforth, the only way in which you can secure your property against these Bruces is by at once making your will.”

“Making my will!” replied the earl, looking as if the new responsibilities opening upon him were almost bewildering.

“Every man who has any thing to leave ought to make a will as soon as ever he comes of age.  Vainly I urged this upon your father.”

“My poor father!  That he should die-so young and strong-and I should live-how strange it seems!  You think, then-perhaps Dr. Hamilton also thinks-that my life is precarious?”

“I can not tell; my dear lord, how could any man possibly tell?”

“Well, it will not make me die one day sooner or later to have made my will:  as you say, every man ought to do it; I ought especially, for my life is more doubtful than most people’s, and it is a solemn charge to posses so large a fortune as mine.”

“Yes.  The good-or harm-that might be done with it is incalculable.”

“I feel that-at least I am beginning to feel it.”

And for a time the earl sat silent and thoughtful; the old lawyer fussing about, putting papers and debris of all sorts into their right places, but feeling it awkward to resume the conversation.

“Mr. Menteith, are you at liberty now?  For I have quite made up my mind.  This matter of the will shall be settled at once.  It can be done?”

“Certainly.”

“Sit down, then, and I will dictate it.  But first you must promise not to interfere with any disposition I may see fit to make of my property.”

“I should not have the slightest right to do so, Lord Cairnforth.”

“My good old friend!  Well, now, how shall we begin?”

“I should recommend your first stating any legacies you may wish to leave to dependents-for instance, Mrs. Campbell, or Malcolm, and then bequeathing the whole bulk of your estates to some one person- some young person likely to outlive you, and upon whom you can depend to carry out all your plans and intentions, and make as good a use of your fortune as you would have done yourself.  That is my principle as to choice of an heir.  There are many instances in which blood is not thicker than water, and a friend by election is often worthier and dearer, besides being closer than any relative.”

“You are right.”

“Still, consanguinity must be considered a little.  You might leave a certain sum to these Bruces-or if, on inquiry, you found among them any child whom you approved, you could adopt him as your heir, and he could take the name Montgomerie.”

“No,” replied the ear, decisively, “that name is ended.  All I have to consider is my own people here-my tenants and servants.  Whoever succeeds me ought to know them all, and be to them exactly what I have been, or rather what I hope to be.”

“Mr. Cardross, for instance.  Were you thinking of him as your heir?”

“No, not exactly,” replied Lord Cairnforth, slightly coloring.  “He is a little too old.  Besides, he is not quite the sort of person I should wish-too gentle and self-absorbed-too little practical.”

“One of his sons, perhaps?”

“No, nor one of yours either; to whom, by the way you will please to set down a thousand pounds apiece.  Nay, don’t look so horrified; it will not harm them.  But personally I do not know them, nor they me.  And my heir should be some one whom I thoroughly do know, thoroughly respect, thoroughly love.  There is but one person in the world-one young person-who answers to all those requisites.”

“Who is that?”

“Helen Cardross.”

Mr. Menteith was a good deal surprised.  Though he had a warm corner in his heart for Helen, still, the idea of her as heiress to so large an estate was novel and startling.  He did not consider himself justified in criticizing the earl’s choice; still, he thought it odd.  True, Helen was a brave, sensible, self-dependent woman-not a girl any longer -and accustomed from the age of fifteen to guide a household, to be her father’s right hand, and her brothers’ help and counselor-one of those rare characters who, without being exactly masculine, are yet not too feebly feminine-in whom strength is never exaggerated to boldness, nor gentleness deteriorated into weakness.  She was firm, too; could form her own opinion and carry it out; though not accomplished, was fairly well educated, possessed plenty of sound practical knowledge of men and things, and, above all, had habits of extreme order and regularity.  People said, sometimes, that Miss Cardross ruled not only the Manse, but the whole parish; however, if so, she did it in so sweet a way that nobody ever objected to her government.

All these things Mr. Menteith ran over in his acute mind within the next few minutes, during which he did not commit himself to any remarks at all.  At last he said,

“I think, my lord, you are right.  Helen’s no bonnie, but she is a rare creature, with the head of a man and the heart of a woman.  She is worth all her brothers put together, and, under the circumstances, I believe you could not do better than make her your heiress.”

“I am glad you think so,” was the brief answer.  Though, by the expression of the earl’s face, Mr. Menteith clearly saw that, whether he had thought it or not, the result would have been just the same.  He smiled a little to himself, but he did not dispute the matter.  He knew that one of the best qualities the earl possessed-most blessed and useful to him, as it is to every human being-was the power of making up his own mind, and acting upon it with that quiet resolution which is quite distinct from obstinacy-obstinacy, usually the last strong-hold of cowards, and the blustering self-defense of fools.

“There is but one objection to your plan, Lord Cairnforth.  Miss Cardross is young-twenty-six, I think.”

“Twenty-five and a half.”

“She may not remain always Miss Cardross.  She may marry; and we can not tell what sort of man her husband may be, or how fit to be trusted with so large a property.”

“So good a woman is not likely to choose a man unworthy of her,” said Lord Cairnforth, after a pause.  “Still, could not my fortune be settled upon herself as a life-rent, to descend intact to her heirs-that is, her children?”

“My dear lord, how you must have thought over every thing!”

“You forget, my friend, I have nothing to do but to sit thinking.”

There was a sad intonation in the voice which affected Mr. Menteith deeply.  He made no remark, but busied himself in drawing up the will, which Lord Cairnforth seemed nervously anxious should be completed that very day.

“For, suppose any thing should happen-if I died this night, for instance!  No, let what is done be done as soon as possible, and as privately.”

“You wish, then, the matter to be kept private?” asked Mr. Menteith.

“Yes.”

So in the course of the next few hours the will was drawn up.  It was somewhat voluminous with sundry small legacies, no one being forgotten whom the earl desired to benefit or thought needed his help; but the bulk of his fortune he left unreservedly to Helen Cardross.  Malcolm and another servant were called in as witnesses, and the earl saying to them with a cheerful smile “that he was making his will, but did not mean to die a day the sooner,” signed it with that feeble, uncertain signature which yet had cost him years of pains to acquire, and never might have been acquired at all but for his own perseverance and the unwearied patience of Helen Cardross.

“She taught me to write, you know,” said he to Mr. Menteith, as-the witnesses being gone-he, with a half-amused look, regarded his own autograph.

“You have used the results of her teaching well on her behalf today.  It is no trifle-a clear income of ten thousand a year; but she will make a good use of it.”

“I am sure of that.  So, now, all is safe and right, and I may die as soon as God pleases.”

He leaned his head back wearily, and his face was overspread by that melancholy shadow which it wore at times, showing how, at best, life was a heavy burden, as it could not but be-to him.

“Come, now,” said the earl, rousing himself, “we have still a good many things to talk over, which I want to consult you about before you go,” whereupon the young man opened up such a number of schemes, chiefly for the benefit of his tenantry and the neighborhood, that Mr. Menteith was quite overwhelmed.

“Why, my lord, you are the most energetic Earl of Cairnforth that ever came to the title.  It would take three lifetimes, instead of a single one, even if that reached threescore and ten, to carry out all you want to do.”

“Would it?  Then let us hope it was not for nothing that those good folk yesterday made themselves hoarse with wishing me ’a lang life and a merry ane.’  And when I die-but we’ll not enter upon that subject.  My dear old friend, I hope for many and many a thirtieth of June I shall make you welcome to Cairnforth.  And now let us take a quiet drive together, and fetch all the Manse people up to dinner at the Castle.”