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.