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.