Then, as the _White Dove_ still glided on her way, we opened out a

little indentation of the land behind an island; and there, nestled at

the foot of the hill, we descried a small fishing-village. The

cottages, the nets drying on the poles, the tiny patches of cultivated

ground behind, all seemed quite toy-like against the giant and

overhanging bulk of the hills. But again we drew away from Camus

Ban--that is, the White Bay--and got further and further into the

solitudes of the mountains, and away from any traces of human life.

When about mid-day we came to anchor, we found ourselves in a sort of

cup within the hills, apparently shut off from all the outer world, and

in a stillness so intense that the distant whistle of a curlew was quite

startling. A breath of wind that blew over from the shore brought us a

scent of honeysuckle.

At luncheon we found to our amazement that a fifth seat had been placed

at table, and that plates, glasses, and what not had been laid for a

guest. A guest in these wilds?--there was not much chance of such a

thing, unless the King of the Seals or the Queen of the Mermaids were to

come on board.

But when we had taken our seats, and were still regarding the vacant

chair with some curiosity, the Laird's hostess was pleased to explain.

She said to him, with a shy smile,

"I have not forgotten what you said; and I quite agree with you that it

balances the table better."

"But not an empty chair," said the Laird, severely; perhaps thinking it

was an evil omen.

"You know the German song," said she, "and how the last remaining of the

comrades filled the glasses with wine, and how the ghosts rattled the

glasses. Would you kindly fill that glass, sir?"

She passed the decanter.

"I will not, begging your pardon," said the Laird, sternly, for he did

not approve of these superstitions. And forthwith he took the deck

chair and doubled it up, and threw it on the couch. "We want the young

man Sutherland here, and not any ghost. I doubt not but that he has

reached London by now."

After that a dead silence. Were there any calculations about time; or

were we wondering whether, amid the roar and whirl and moving life of

the great city, he was thinking of the small floating-home far away,

amid the solitude of the seas and the hills? The deck-chair was put

aside, it is true, for the Laird shrank from superstition; but the empty

glass, and the plates and knives, and so forth, remained; and they

seemed to say that our expected guest was drawing nearer and nearer.

"Well, John," said Queen Titania, getting on deck again, and looking

round, "I think we have got into Fairyland at last."

John of Skye did not seem quite to understand, for his answer was--

"Oh, yes, mem, it is a fearful place for squahls."

"For squalls!" said she.

No wonder she was surprised. The sea around us was so smooth that the

only motion visible on it was caused by an exhausted wasp that had

fallen on the glassy surface and was making a series of small ripples in

trying to get free again. And then, could anything be more soft and

beautiful than the scene around us--the great mountains clad to the

summit with the light foliage of the birch; silver waterfalls that made

a vague murmur in the air; an island right ahead with picturesquely

wooded rocks; an absolutely cloudless sky above--altogether a wonder of

sunlight and fair colours? Squalls? The strange thing was, not that we

had ventured into a region of unruly winds, but that we had got enough

wind to bring us in at all. There was now not even enough to bring us

the scent of the honeysuckle from the shore.

In the afternoon we set out on an expedition, nominally after wild-duck,

but in reality in exploration of the upper reaches of the loch. We found

a narrow channel between the island and the mainland, and penetrated

into the calm and silent waters of Loch Hourn Beg. And still less did

this offshoot of the larger loch accord with that gloomy name--the Lake

of Hell. Even where the mountains were bare and forbidding, the warm

evening light touched the granite with a soft rose-grey; and reflections

of this beautiful colour were here and there visible amid the clear blue

of the water. We followed the windings of the narrow and tortuous loch;

but found no wild-duck at all. Here and there a seal stared at us as we

passed. Then we found a crofter's cottage, and landed, to the

consternation of one or two handsome wild-eyed children. A purchase of

eggs ensued, after much voluble Gaelic. We returned to the yacht.

That evening, as we sate on deck, watching the first stars beginning to

tremble in the blue, some one called attention to a singular light that

was beginning to appear along the summits of the mountains just over

us--a silvery-grey light that showed us the soft foliage of the birches,

while below the steep slopes grew more sombre as the night fell. And

then we guessed that the moon was somewhere on the other side of the

loch, as yet hidden from us by those black crags that pierced into the

calm blue vault of the sky. This the Lake of Hell, indeed! By and by

we saw the silver rim appear above the black line of the hills; and a

pale glory was presently shining around us, particularly noticeable

along the varnished spars. As the white moon sailed up, this solitary

cup in the mountains was filled with the clear radiance, and the silence

seemed to increase. We could hear more distinctly than ever the various

waterfalls. The two women were walking up and down the deck; and each

time that Mary Avon turned her profile to the light the dark eyebrows

and dark eyelashes seemed darker than ever against the pale, sensitive,

sweet face.

But after a while she gently disengaged herself from her friend, and

came and sate down by the Laird: quite mutely, and waiting for him to

speak. It is not to be supposed that she had been in any way more

demonstrative towards him since his great act of kindness; or that there

was any need for him to have purchased her affection. That was of older

date. Perhaps, if the truth were told, she was rather less

demonstrative now; for we had all discovered that the Laird had a

nervous horror of anything that seemed to imply a recognition of what he

had done. It was merely, he had told us, a certain wrong thing he had

put right: there was no more to be said about it.

However, her coming and sitting down by him was no unusual circumstance;

and she meekly left him his own choice, to speak to her or not as he

pleased. And he did speak--after a time.

"I was thinking," said he, "what a strange feeling ye get in living on

board a yacht in these wilds: it is just as if ye were the only

craytures in the world. Would ye not think, now, that the moon there

belonged to this circle of hills, and could not be seen by any one

outside it? It looks as if it were coming close to the topmast; how can

ye believe that it is shining over Trafalgar Square in London?"

"It seems very close to us on so clear a night," says Mary Avon.

"And in a short time now," continued the Laird, "this little world of

ours--I mean the little company on board the yacht--must be dashed into

fragments, as it were; and ye will be away in London; and I will be at

Denny-mains: and who knows whether we may ever see each other again? We

must not grumble. It is the fate of the best friends. But there is one

grand consolation--think what a consolation it must have been to many of

the poor people who were driven away from these Highlands--to Canada,

and Australia, and elsewhere--that after all the partings and sorrows of

this world there is the great meeting-place at last. I would just ask

this favour frae ye, my lass, that when ye go back to London, ye would

get a book of our old Scotch psalm-tunes, and learn the tune that is

called _Comfort_. It begins 'Take comfort, Christians, when your

friends.' It is a grand tune that: I would like ye to learn it."

"Oh, certainly I will," said the girl.

"And I have been thinking," continued the Laird, "that I would get Tom

Galbraith to make ye a bit sketch of Denny-mains, that ye might hang up

in London, if ye were so minded. It would show ye what the place was

like; and after some years ye might begin to believe that ye really had

been there, and that ye were familiar with it, as the home of an old

friend o' yours."

"But I hope to see Denny-mains for myself, sir," said she, with some

surprise.

A quick, strange look appeared for a moment on the old Laird's face.

But presently he said--

"No, no, lass, ye will have other interest and other duties. That is

but proper and natural. How would the world get on at all if we were

not to be dragged here and there by diverse occupations?"

Then the girl spoke, proudly and bravely--

"And if I have any duties in the world, I think I know to whom I owe

them. And it is not a duty at all, but a great pleasure; and you

promised me, sir, that I was to see Denny-mains; and I wish to pay you a

long, long, long visit."

"A long, long, long visit?" said the Laird cheerfully. "No, no, lass.

I just couldna be bothered with ye. Ye would be in my way. What

interest could ye take in our parish meetings, and the church _soirees_,

and the like? No, no. But if ye like to pay me a short, short, short

visit--at your own convenience--at your own convenience, mind--I will

get Tom Galbraith through from Edinburgh, and I will get out some of the

younger Glasgowmen; and if we do not, you and me, show them something in

the way of landscape-sketching, that will just frighten them out of

their very wits, why then I will give ye leave to say that my name is

not Mary Avon."

He rose then and took her hand, and began to walk with her up and down

the moonlit deck. We heard something about the Haughs o' Cromdale. The

Laird was obviously not ill-pleased that she had boldly claimed that

promised visit to Denny-mains.

*CHAPTER XIII.*

*"YE ARE WELCOME, GLENOGIE!"*

When, after nearly three months of glowing summer weather, the heavens

begin to look as if they meditated revenge; when, in a dead calm, a

darkening gloom appears behind the further hills, and slight puffs of

wind, come down vertically, spreading themselves out on the glassy

water; when the air is sultry, and an occasional low rumble is heard,

and the sun looks white; then the reader of these pages may thank his

stars that he is not in Loch Hourn. And yet it was not altogether our

fault that we were nearly caught in this dangerous cup among the hills.

We had lain in these silent and beautiful waters for two or three days,

partly because of the exceeding loveliness of the place, partly because

we had to allow Angus time to get up to Isle Ornsay, but chiefly because

we had not the option of leaving. To get through the narrow and shallow

channel by which we had entered we wanted both wind and tide in our

favour; and there was scarcely a breath of air during the long,

peaceful, shining days. At length, when our sovereign mistress made

sure that the young Doctor must be waiting for us at Isle Ornsay, she

informed Captain John that he must get us out of this place somehow.

"'Deed, I not sorry at all," said John of Skye, who had never ceased to

represent to us, that, in the event of bad weather coming on, we should

find ourselves in the lion's jaws.

Well, on the afternoon of the third day, it became very obvious that

something serious was about to happen. Clouds began to bank up behind

the mountains that overhung the upper reaches of the loch, and an

intense purple gloom gradually spread along those sombre hills--all the

more intense that the little island in front of us, crossing the loch,

burned in the sunlight a vivid strip of green. Then little puffs of wind

fell here and there on the blue water, and broadened out in a silvery

grey. We noticed that all the men were on deck.

As the strange darkness of the loch increased, as these vast mountains

overhanging the inner cup of the loch grew more and more awful in the

gloom, we began to understand why the Celtic imagination had called this

place the Lake of Hell. Captain John kept walking up and down somewhat

anxiously, and occasionally looking at his watch. The question was

whether we should get enough wind to take us through the narrows before

the tide turned. In the meantime mainsail and jib were set, and the

anchor hove short.

At last the welcome flapping and creaking and rattling of blocks! What

although this brisk breeze came dead in our teeth? John of Skye, as he

called all hands to the windlass, crave us to understand that he would

rather beat through the neck of a bottle than lie in Loch Hourn that

night.

And it was an exciting piece of business when we got further down the

loch, and approached this narrow passage. On the one side sharp and

sheer rocks; on the other shallow banks that shone through the water;

behind us the awful gloom of gathering thunder; ahead of us a breeze

that came tearing down from the hills in the most puzzling and varying

squalls. With a steady wind it would have been bad enough to beat

through those narrows; but this wind kept shifting about anyhow. Sharp

was the word indeed. It was a question of seconds as we sheered away

from the rocks on the one side, or from the shoals on the other. And

then, amidst it all, a sudden cry from the women--

"John! John!"

John of Skye knows his business too well to attend to the squealing of

women.

"Ready about!" he roars; and all hands are at the sheets, and even

Master Fred is leaning over the bows, to watch the shallowness of the

water.

"John, John!" the women cry.

"Haul up the main tack, Hector! Ay, that'll do. Ready about, boys!"

But this starboard tack is a little bit longer, and John manages to cast

an impatient glance behind him. The sailor's eye in an instant detects

that distant object. What is it? Why, surely some one in the stern of

a rowing-boat, standing up and violently waving a white handkerchief,

and two men pulling like mad creatures.

"John, John! Don't you see it is Angus Sutherland!" cries the older

woman pitifully.

By this time we are going bang on to a sandbank; and the men, standing

by the sheets, are amazed that the skipper does not put his helm down.

Instead of that--and all this happens in an instant--he eases the helm

up, the bows of the yacht fall away from the wind, and just clear the

bank. Hector of Moidart jumps to the mainsheet and slacks it out, and

then, behold! the _White Dove_ is running free, and there is a sudden

silence on board.

"Why, he must have come over from the Caledonian Canal!" says Queen

Titania, in great excitement. "Oh, how glad I am!"

But John of Skye takes advantage of this breathing space to have another

glance at his watch.

"We'll maybe beat the tide yet," he says confidently.

And who is this who comes joyously clambering up, and hauls his

portmanteau after him, and throws a couple of half-crowns into the

bottom of the black boat?

"Oh, Angus!" his hostess cries to him, "you will shake hands with us all

afterwards. We are in a dreadful strait. Never mind us--help John if

you can."

Meanwhile Captain John has again put the nose of the _White Dove_ at

these perilous narrows; and the young Doctor--perhaps glad enough to

escape embarrassment among all this clamour--has thrown his coat off to

help; and the men have got plenty of anchor-chain on deck, to let go the

anchor if necessary; and then again begins that manoeuvring between the

shallows and the rocks. What is this new sense of completeness--of

added life--of briskness and gladness? Why do the men seem more alert?

and why this cheeriness in Captain John's shouted commands? The women

are no longer afraid of either banks or shoals; they rather enjoy the

danger; when John seems determined to run the yacht through a mass of

conglomerate, they know that with the precision of clock-work she will

be off on the other tack; and they are laughing at these narrow escapes.

Perhaps it would be more accurate to say that only one of them laughs.

Mary Avon is somewhat silent, and she holds her friend's hand tight.

Tide or no tide, we get through the narrow channel at last; and every

one breathes more freely when we are in the open. But we are still far

from being out of Loch Hourn; and now the mountains in the south,

too--one of them apparently an extinct volcano--have grown black as

night; and the wind that comes down from them in jerks and squalls

threatens to plunge our bulwarks under water. How the _White Dove_ flees

away from this gathering gloom! Once or twice we hear behind us a roar,

and turning we can see a specially heavy squall tearing across the loch;

but here with us the wind continues to keep a little more steady, and we

go bowling along at a whirling pace. Angus Sutherland comes aft, puts

on his coat, and makes his formal entry into our society.

"You have just got out in time," says he, laughing somewhat nervously,

to his hostess. "There will be a wild night in Loch Hourn to-night."

"And the beautiful calm we have had in there!" she says. "We were

beginning to think that Loch Hourn was Fairyland."

"Look!" he said.

And indeed the spectacle behind us was of a nature to make us thankful

that we had slipped out of the lion's jaws. The waters of the loch were

being torn into spindrift by the squalls; and the black clouds overhead

were being dragged into shreds as if by invisible hands; and in the

hollows below appeared a darkness as if night had come on prematurely.

And still the _White Dove_ flew and flew, as if she knew of the danger

behind her; and by and by we were plunging and racing across the Sound

of Sleat. We had seen the last of Loch Hourn.

The clear golden ray of Isle Ornsay lighthouse was shining through the

dusk as we made in for the sheltered harbour. We had ran the dozen

miles or so in a little over the hour; and now dinner-time had arrived;

and we were not sorry to be in comparatively smooth water. The men were

sent ashore with some telegram--the sending off of which was the main

object of our running in here; and then Master Fred's bell summoned us

below from the wild and windy night.

How rich and warm and cheerful was this friendly glow of the candles,

and how compact the table seemed now, with the vacant space filled at

last! And every one appeared to be talking hard, in order to show that

Angus Sutherland's return was a quite ordinary and familiar thing; and

the Laird was making his jokes; and the young Doctor telling his hostess

how he had been sending telegrams here and there until he had learned of

the _White Dove_ having been seen going in to Loch Hourn. Even Miss

Avon, though she said but little, shared in this general excitement and

pleasure. We could hear her soft laughter from time to time. But her

eyes were kept away from the corner where Angus Sutherland sate.

"Well, you _are_ lucky people," said he. "If you had missed getting out

of that hole by half an hour, you might have been shut up in it a

fortnight. I believe a regular gale from the south has begun."

"It is you who have brought it then," said his hostess. "You are the

stormy petrel. And you did your best to make us miss the tide."

"I think we shall have some sailing now," said he, rubbing his hands in

great delight--he pretends to be thinking only of the yacht. "John talks

of going on to-night, so as to slip through the Kyle Rhea narrows with

the first of the flood-tide in the morning."

"Going out to-night!" she exclaimed. "Is it you who have put that

madness into his head? It must be pitch dark already. And a gale

blowing!"

"Oh, no!" he said, laughing. "There is not much of a gale. And it

cannot be very dark with the moon behind the clouds."

Here a noise above told us the men had come back from the small village.

They brought a telegram too; but it was of no consequence.

Presently--in fact, as soon as he decently could--Angus left the

dinner-table, and went on deck. He had scarcely dared to glance at the

pale sensitive face opposite him.

By and by Queen Titania said, solemnly:

"Listen!"

There was no doubt about it; the men were weighing anchor.

"That madman," said she, "has persuaded Captain John to go to sea

again--at this time of night!"

"It was Captain John's own wish. He wishes to catch the tide in the

morning," observed Miss Avon, with her eyes cast down.

"That's right, my lass," said the Laird. "Speak up for them who are

absent. But, indeed, I think I will go on deck myself now, to see

what's going on."

We all went on deck, and there and then unanimously passed a vote of

approval on Captain John's proceedings, for the wind had moderated very

considerably; and there was a pale suffused light telling of the moon

being somewhere behind the fleecy clouds in the south-east. With much

content we perceived that the _White Dove_ was already moving out of the

dark little harbour. We heard the rush of the sea outside without much

concern.

It was a pleasant sailing night after all. When we had stolen by the

glare of the solitary lighthouse, and got into the open, we found there

was no very heavy sea running, while there was a steady serviceable

breeze from the south. There was moonlight abroad too, though the moon

was mostly invisible behind the thin drifting clouds. The women,

wrapped up, sate hand-in-hand, and chatted to each other; the Doctor was

at the tiller; the Laird was taking an occasional turn up and down,

sometimes pausing to challenge general attention by some profound

remark.

And very soon we began to perceive that Angus Sutherland had by some

inscrutable means got into the Laird's good graces in a most marked

degree. Denny-mains, on this particular night, as we sailed away

northward, was quite complimentary about the march of modern science,

and the service done to humanity by scientific men. He had not even an

ill word for the _Vestiges of Creation_. He went the length of saying

that he was not scholar enough to deny that there might be various ways

of interpreting the terms of the Mosaic chronology; and expressed a

great interest in the terribly remote people who must have lived in the

lake-dwellings.

"Oh, don't you believe that!" said our steersman good-naturedly. "The

scientifics are only humbugging the public about those lake-dwellings.

They were only the bath-houses and wash-houses of a comparatively modern

and civilised race, just as you see them now on the Lake of a Thousand

Islands, and at the mouths of the Amazon, and even on the Rhine. Surely

you know the bath-houses built on piles on the Rhine?"

"Dear me!" said the Laird, "that is extremely interesting. It is a

novel view--a most novel view. But then the remains--what of the

remains? The earthen cups and platters: they must have belonged to a

very preemitive race?"

"Not a bit," said the profound scientific authority, with a laugh.

"They were the things the children amused themselves with, when their

nurses took them down there to be out of the heat and the dust. They

were a very advanced race indeed. Even the children could make earthen

cups and saucers, while the children now-a-days can only make mud-pies."

"Don't believe him, sir!" their hostess called out; "he is only making a

fool of us all."

"Ay, but there's something in it--there's something in it," said the

Laird seriously; and he took a step or two up and down the deck, in deep

meditation. "There's something in it. It's plausible. If it is not

sound, it is an argument. It would be a good stick to break over an

ignorant man's head."

Suddenly the Laird began to laugh aloud.

"Bless me," said he, "if I could only inveigle Johnny Guthrie into an

argument about that! I would give it him! I would give it him!"

This was a shocking revelation. What had come over the Laird's

conscience that he actually proposed to inveigle a poor man into a

controversy and then to hit him over the head with a sophistical

argument? We could not have believed it. And here he was laughing and

chuckling to himself over that shameful scheme.

Our attention, however, was at this moment suddenly drawn away from

moral questions. The rapidly driving clouds just over the wild mountains

of Loch Hourn parted, and the moon glared out on the tumbling waves.

But what a curious moon it was!--pale and watery, with a white halo

around it, and with another faintly-coloured halo outside that again

whenever the slight and vapoury clouds crossed. John of Skye came aft.

"I not like the look of that moon," said John of Skye to the Doctor, but

in an undertone, so that the women should not hear.

"Nor I either," said the other, in an equally low voice. "Do you think

we are going to have the equinoctials, John?"

"Oh no, not yet. It is not the time for the equinoctials yet."

And as we crept on through the night, now and again from amid the wild

and stormy clouds above Loch Hourn the wan moon still shone out; and

then we saw something of the silent shores we were passing, and of the

awful mountains overhead, stretching far into the darkness of the skies.

Then preparations were made for coming to anchor; and by and by the

_White Dove_ was brought round to the wind. We were in a bay--if bay it

could be called--just south of Kyle Rhea narrows. There was nothing

visible along the pale moonlit shore.

"This is a very open place to anchor in, John," our young Doctor

ventured to remark.

"But it is a good holding-ground; and we will be away early in the

morning whatever."

And so, when the anchor was swung out, and quiet restored over the

vessel, we proceeded to get below. There were a great many things to be

handed down; and a careful search had to be made that nothing was

forgotten--we did not want to find soaked shawls or books lying on the

deck in the morning. But at length all this was settled too, and we

were assembled once more in the saloon.

We were assembled--all but two.

"Where is Miss Mary?" said the Laird cheerfully: he was always the first

to miss his companion.

"Perhaps she is in her cabin," said his hostess somewhat nervously.

"And your young Doctor--why does he not come down and have his glass of

toddy like a man?" said the Laird, getting his own tumbler. "The young

men now-a-days are just as frightened as children. What with their

chemistry, and their tubes, and their percentages of alcohol: there was

none of that nonsense when I was a young man. People took what they

liked, so long as it agreed with them; and will anybody tell me there is

any harm in a glass of good Scotch whisky?"

She does not answer; she looks somewhat preoccupied and anxious.

"Ay, ay," continues the Laird, reaching over for the sugar; "if people

would only stop there, there is nothing in the world makes such an

excellent night-cap as a single glass of good Scotch whisky. Now,

ma'am, I will just beg you to try half a glass of my brewing."

She pays no attention to him. For first of all she now hears a light

step on the companion-way, and then the door of the ladies' cabin is

opened, and shut again. Then a heavy step on the companion-way, and Dr.

Sutherland comes into the saloon. There is a strange look on his

face--not of dejection; but he tries to be very reticent and modest, and

is inordinately eager in handing a knife to the Laird for the cutting of

a lemon.

"Where is Mary, Angus?" said his hostess, looking at him.

"She has gone into your cabin," said he, looking up with a sort of

wistful appeal in his eyes. As plainly as possible they said, "Won't

you go to her?"

The unspoken request was instantly answered; she got up and quietly left

the saloon.

"Come, lad," said the Laird. "Are ye afraid to try a glass of Scotch

whisky? You chemical men know too much: that is not wholesome; and you

a Scotchman too--take a glass, man!"

"Twelve, if you like," said the Doctor, laughing; "but one will do for

my purpose. I'm going to follow your example, sir; I am going to propose

a toast. It is a good old custom."

This was a proposal after the Laird's own heart. He insisted on the

women being summoned; and they came. He took no notice that Mary Avon

was rose-red, and downcast of face; and that the elder woman held her

hand tightly, and had obviously been crying a little bit--not tears of

sorrow. When they were seated, he handed each a glass. Then he called

for silence, waiting to hear our Doctor make a proper and courtly speech

about his hostess, or about the _White Dove_, or John of Skye, or

anything.

But what must have been the Laird's surprise when he found that it was

his own health that was being proposed! And that not in the manner of

the formal oratory that the Laird admired, but in a very simple and

straightforward speech, that had just a touch of personal and earnest

feeling in it. For the young Doctor spoke of the long days and nights

we had spent together, far away from human ken; and how intimately

associated people became on board ship; and how thoroughly one could

learn to know and love a particular character through being brought into

such close relationship. And he said that friendships thus formed in a

week or a month might last for a lifetime. And he could not say much,

before the very face of the Laird, about all those qualities which had

gained for him something more than our esteem--qualities especially

valuable on board ship--good humour, patience, courtesy,

light-heartedness----

"Bless me," cried the Laird, interrupting the speaker in defiance of all

the laws that govern public oratory, "I maun stop this--I maun stop

this! Are ye all come together to make fun of me--eh? Have a

care--have a care!"

He looked round threateningly; and his eye lighted with a darker warning

on Mary Avon.

"That lass, too," said he; "and I thought her a friend of mine; and she

has come to make a fool of me like the rest! And so ye want to make me

the Homesh o' this boat? Well, I may be a foolish old man; but my eyes

are open. I know what is going on. Come here, my lass, until I tell ye

something."

Mary Avon went and took the seat next him; and he put his hand gently on

her shoulder.

"Young people will have their laugh and their joke," said he.

"It was no joke at all!" said she warmly.

"Whisht, now. I say young people will have their laugh and their joke

at a foolish old man; and who is to prevent them? Not me. But I'll tell

ye what: ye may have your sport of me, on one condition."

He patted her once or twice on the shoulder, just as if she was a child.

"And the condition is this, my lass--that ye have the wedding at

Denny-mains."

*CHAPTER XIV.*

*THE EQUINOCTIALS AT LAST.*

There was no dreaming of weddings at Denny-mains, or elsewhere, for some

of us that night. It had been blowing pretty hard when we turned in;

but towards two or three o'clock the wind increased to half a gale,

while heavy showers kept rattling along the decks. Then there were other

sounds. One of the men was heard to clamber up the iron ladder of the

forecastle; and as soon as he had put his head out, his contented

exclamation was, "Oh, ferry well; go on!" Then he came below and roused

his companions. Presently there was a loud commotion on deck. This was

enough for our Doctor. One could hear him rapidly dressing in his

little state-room--then staggering through the saloon, for the wind was

knocking about the _White Dove_ considerably--then groping his way up

the dark companion. For some time there was a fine turmoil going on

above. Another anchor was thrown out. The gig and dingay were brought

in on deck. All the skylights were fastened down, and the tarpaulins

put over. Then a woman's voice--

"Angus! Angus!"

The Doctor came tumbling down the companion; by this time we had got a

candle lit in the saloon.

"What is it?" was heard from the partly opened door of the ladies'

cabin.

"Nothing at all. A bit of a breeze has sprung up."

"Mary says you must stay below. Never mind what it is. You are not to

go on deck again."

"Very well."

He came into the saloon--all wet and dripping, but exceedingly pleased

to have been thus thought of--and then he said in a tragic whisper:

"We are in for it at last."

"The equinoctials?"

"Yes."

So we turned in again, leaving the _White Dove_ to haul and strain at

her cables all through the night--swaying, pitching, groaning, creaking,

as if she would throw herself free of her anchors altogether, and sweep

away over to Glenelg.

Then, in the early morning, the gale had apparently increased. While

the women-folk remained in their cabin, the others of us adventured up

the companion-way, and had a look out. It was not a cheerful sight.

All around the green sea was being torn along by the heavy wind; the

white crests of the waves being whirled up in smoke; the surge springing

high on the rocks over by Glenelg; the sky almost black overhead; the

mountains that ought to have been quite near us invisible behind the

flying mists of the rain. Then how the wind howled! Ordinarily the

sound was a low, moaning bass--even lower than the sound of the waves;

but then again it would increase and rise into a shrill whistle, mostly

heard, one would have said, from about the standing rigging and the

crosstrees. But our observation of these phenomena was brief,

intermittent, and somewhat ignominious. We had to huddle in the

companion-way like Jacks-in-the-box; for the incautiously protruded head

was liable to be hit by a blast of rain that came along like a charge of

No. 6 shot. Then we tumbled below for breakfast, and the scared

women-folk made their appearance.

"The equinoctials, Angus?" said Queen Titania, with some solemnity of

face.

"Oh, I suppose so," said he cheerfully.

"Well, I have been through them two or three times before," said she,

"but never in an exposed place like this."

"We shall fight through it first-rate," said he--and you should have

seen Mary Avon's eyes; she was clearly convinced that fifteen

equinoctial gales could not do us the slightest harm so long as this

young Doctor was on board. "It is a fine stroke of luck that the gale

is from the south-west. If it had come on from the east, we should have

been in a bad way. As it is, there is not a rock between here and the

opposite shore at Glenelg, and even if we drag our anchors, we shall

catch up somewhere at the other side."

"I hope we shall not have to trust to that," says Queen Titania, who in

her time has seen something of the results of vessels dragging their

anchors.

As the day wore on, the fury of the gale still increased: the wind

moaning and whistling by turns, the yacht straining at her cables, and

rolling and heaving about. Despite the tender entreaties of the women,

Dr. Angus would go on deck again; for now Captain John had resolved on

lowering the topmast, and also on getting the boom and mainsail from

their crutch down on to the deck. Being above in this weather was far

from pleasant. The showers occasionally took the form of hail; and so

fiercely were the pellets driven by the wind that they stung where they

hit the face. And the outlook around was dismal enough--the green sea

and its whirling spindrift; the heavy waves breaking all along the

Glenelg shores; the writhing of the gloomy sky. We had a companion, by

the way, in this exposed place--a great black schooner that heavily

rolled and pitched as she strained at her two anchors. The skipper of

her did not leave her bows for a moment the whole day, watching for the

first symptom of dragging.

Then that night. As the darkness came over, the wind increased in

shrillness until it seemed to tear with a scream through the rigging;

and though we were fortunately under the lee of the Skye hills, we could

hear the water smashing on the bows of the yacht. As night fell that

shrill whistling and those recurrent shocks grew in violence, until we

began to wonder how long the cables would hold.

"And if our anchors give, I wonder where we shall go to," said Queen

Titania, in rather a low voice.

"I don't care," said Miss Avon, quite contentedly.

She was seated at dinner; and had undertaken to cut up and mix some

salad that Master Fred had got at Loch Hourn. She seemed wholly

engrossed in that occupation. She offered some to the Laird, very

prettily; and he would have taken it if it had been hemlock. But when

she said she did not care where the _White Dove_ might drift to, we knew

very well what she meant. And some of us may have thought that a time

would perhaps arrive when the young lady would not be able to have

everything she cared for in the world within the compass of the saloon

of a yacht.

Now it is perhaps not quite fair to tell tales out of school; but still

the truth is the truth. The two women were on the whole very brave

throughout this business; but on that particular night the storm grew

more and more violent, and it occurred to them that they would escape

the risk of being rolled out of their berths if they came along into the

saloon and got some rugs laid on the floor. This they did; and the

noise of the wind and the sea was so great that none of the occupants of

the adjoining state-rooms heard them. But then it appeared that no

sooner had they lain down on the floor--it is unnecessary to say that

they were dressed and ready for any emergency--than they were mightily

alarmed by the swishing of water below them.

"Mary! Mary!" said the one, "the sea is rushing into the hold."

The other, knowing less about yachts, said nothing; but no doubt, with

the admirable unselfishness of lovers, thought it was not of much

consequence, since Angus Sutherland and she would be drowned together.

But what was to be clone? The only way to the forecastle was through

the Doctor's state-room. There was no help for it; they first knocked

at his door, and called to him that the sea was rushing into the hold;

and then he bawled into the forecastle until Master Fred, the first to

awake, made his appearance, rubbing his knuckles into his eyes and

saying, "Very well, sir; is it hot water or cold water ye want?" and

then there was a general commotion of the men getting on deck to try the

pumps. And all this brave uproar for nothing. There was scarcely a

gallon of water in the hold; but the women, by putting their heads close

to the floor of the saloon, had imagined that the sea was rushing in on

them. Such is the story of this night's adventures as it was

subsequently--and with some shamefacedness--related to the writer of

these pages. There are some people who, when they go to sleep, sleep,

and refuse to pay heed to twopenny-halfpenny tumults.

Next morning the state of affairs was no better; but there was this

point in our favour, that the _White Dove_, having held on so long, was

not now likely to drag her anchors and precipitate us on the Glenelg

shore. Again we had to pass the day below, with the running

accompaniment of pitching and groaning on the part of the boat, and of

the shrill clamour of the wind, and the rattling of heavy showers. But

as we sat at luncheon, a strange thing occurred. A burst of sunlight

suddenly came through the skylight and filled the saloon, moving

backwards and forwards on the blue cushions as the yacht swayed, and

delighting everybody with the unexpected glory of colour. You may

suppose that there was little more thought of luncheon. There was an

instant stampede for waterproofs and a clambering up the companion-way.

Did not this brief burst of sunlight portend the passing over of the

gale? Alas! alas! when we got on deck, we found the scene around us as

wild and stormy as ever, with even a heavier sea now racing up the Sound

and thundering along Glenelg. Hopelessly we went below again. The only

cheerful feature of our imprisonment was the obvious content of those

two young people. They seemed perfectly satisfied with being shut up in

this saloon; and were always quite surprised when Master Fred's summons

interrupted their draughts or bezique.

On the third day the wind came in intermittent squalls, which was

something; and occasionally there was a glorious burst of sunshine that

went flying across the grey-green driven sea. But for the most part it

rained heavily; and the Ferdinand and Miranda business was continued

with much content. The Laird had lost himself in Municipal London. Our

Admiral-in-chief was writing voluminous letters to two youths at school

in Surrey, which were to be posted if ever we reached land again.

That night about ten o'clock a cheering incident occurred. We heard the

booming of a steam-whistle. Getting up on deck, we could make out the

lights of a steamer creeping along by the Glenelg shore. That was the

Clydesdale going north. Would she have faced Ardnamurchan if the

equinoctials had not moderated somewhat? These were friendly lights.

Then on the fourth day it became quite certain that the gale was

moderating. The bursts of sunshine became more frequent; patches of

brilliant blue appeared in the sky; a rainbow from time to time appeared

between us and the black clouds in the east. With what an intoxication

of joy we got out at last from our long imprisonment, and felt the warm

sunlight around us, and watched the men get ready to lower the gig so as

to establish once more our communications with the land. Mary Avon

would boldly have adventured into that tumbling and rocking thing--she

implored to be allowed to go; if the Doctor were going to pull stroke,

why should she not be allowed to steer? But she was forcibly

restrained. Then away went the shapely boat through the plunging

waters--showers of spray sweeping her from stem to stern--until it

disappeared into the little bight of Kyle Rhea.

The news brought back from the shore of the destruction wrought by this

gale--the worst that had visited these coasts for three-and-twenty

years--was terrible enough; and it was coupled with the most earnest

warnings that we should not set out. But the sunlight had got into the

brain of these long-imprisoned people, and sent them mad. They implored

the doubting John of Skye to get ready to start. They promised that if

only he would run up to Kyle Akin, they would not ask him to go further,

unless the weather was quite fine. To move--to move--that was their

only desire and cry.

John of Skye shook his head; but so far humoured them as to weigh one of

the anchors.

By and by, too, he had the topmast hoisted again: all this looked more

promising. Then, as the afternoon came on, and the tide would soon be

turning, they renewed their entreaties. John, still doubting, at length

yielded.

Then the joyful uproar! All hands were summoned to the halyards, for

the mainsail, soaked through with the rain, was about as stiff as a

sheet of iron. And the weighing of the second anchor--that was a

cheerful sound indeed. We paid scarcely any heed to this white squall

that was coming tearing along from the south. It brought both rain and

sunlight with it: for a second or two we were enveloped in a sort of

glorified mist--then the next minute we found a rainbow shining between

us and the black hull of the smack; presently we were in glowing

sunshine again. And then at last the anchor was got up, and the sails

filled to the wind, and the mainsheet slackened out. The _White Dove_,

released once more, was flying away to the northern seas!

*CHAPTER XV.*

*"FLIEH! AUF! HINAUS!"*

This splendid sense of life, and motion, and brisk excitement! We flew

through the narrows like a bolt from a bow; we had scarcely time to

regard the whirling eddies of the current. All hands were on the alert

too, for the wind came in gusts from the Skye hills, and this tortuous

strait is not a pleasant place to be taken unawares in. But the

watching and work were altogether delightful, after our long

imprisonment. Even the grave John of Skye was whistling "Fhir a bhata"

to himself--somewhat out of tune.

The wild and stormy sunset was shining all along the shores of Loch Alsh

as we got out of the narrows and came in sight of Kyle Akin. And here

were a number of vessels all storm-stayed, one of them, in the distance,

with her sail set. We discovered afterwards that this schooner had

dragged her anchors and run ashore at Balmacara; she was more fortunate

than many others that suffered in this memorable gale, and was at the

moment we passed returning to her former anchorage.

The sunlight and the delight of moving had certainly got into the heads

of these people. Nothing would do for them but that John of Skye should

go on sailing all night. Kyle Akin? they would not hear of Kyle Akin.

And it was of no avail that Captain John told them what he had heard

ashore--that the _Glencoe_ had to put back with her bulwarks smashed;

that here, there, and everywhere vessels were on the rocks; that

Stornoway harbour was full of foreign craft, not one of which would put

her nose out. They pointed to the sea, and the scene around them. It

was a lovely sunset. Would not the moon be up by eleven?

"Well, mem," said John of Skye, with a humorous smile, "I think if we go

on the night, there not mich chance of our rinning against anything."

And indeed he was not to be outbraved by a couple of women. When we got

to Kyle Akin, the dusk beginning to creep over land and sea, he showed

no signs of running in there for shelter. We pushed through the narrow

straits, and came in view of the darkening plain of the Atlantic,

opening away up there to the north, and as far as we could see there was

not a single vessel but ourselves on all this world of water. The gloom

deepened; in under the mountains of Skye there was a darkness as of

midnight. But one could still make out ahead of us the line of the

Scalpa shore, marked by the white breaking of the waves. Even when that

grew invisible we had Rona light to steer by.

The stormy and unsettled look of the sunset had prepared us for

something of a dirty night, and as we went on both wind and sea

increased considerably. The south-westerly breeze that had brought us

so far at a spanking rate began to veer round to the north, and came in

violent squalls, while the long swell running down between Raasay and

Scalpa and the mainland caused the _White Dove_ to labour heavily.

Moreover, the night got as black as pitch, the moon had not arisen, and

it was lucky, in this laborious beating up against the northerly

squalls, that we had the distant Rona light by which to judge of our

whereabouts.

The two women were huddled together in the companion-way; it was the

safest place for them; we could just make out the two dark figures in

the ruddy glow coming up from the saloon.

"Isn't it splendid to be going like this," said Miss Avon, "after lying

at anchor so long?"

Her friend did not answer. She had been chiefly instrumental in

persuading Captain John to keep on during the night, and she did not

quite like the look of things. For one thing, she had perceived that

the men were all now clad from head to foot in oilskins, though as yet

there was nothing but spray coming on board.

Our young Doctor came aft, and tried to get down the companion-way

without disturbing the two women.

"I am going below for my waterproof and leggings," said he, with a

slight laugh. "There will be some fun before this night is over."

The tone of the girl altered in a moment.

"Oh, Angus," said she, grasping him by the arm. "Pray don't do that!

Leave the men to work the boat. If there is any danger, why don't they

make away for the land somewhere?"

"There is no danger," said he, "but there will be a little water by and

by."

The volume of the great waves was certainly increasing, and a beautiful

sight it was to mark the red port-light shining on the rushing masses of

foam as they swept by the side of the vessel. Our whereabouts by this

time had become wholly a matter of conjecture with the amateurs, for the

night was quite black; however, Rona light still did us good service.

When Angus Sutherland came on deck again, she was on the port tack, and

the wind had moderated somewhat. But this proved to be a lull of evil

omen. There was a low roar heard in the distance, and almost directly a

violent squall from the east struck the yacht, sending the boom flying

over before the skipper could get hold of the mainsheet. Away flew the

_White Dove_ like an arrow, with the unseen masses of water smashing

over her bows!

"In with the mizen, boys!" called out John of Skye, and there was a

hurried clatter and stamping, and flapping of canvas.

But that was not enough, for this unexpected squall from the east showed

permanence, and as we were making in for the Sound of Scalpa we were now

running free before the wind.

"We'll tek the foresail off her, boys!" shouted John of Skye again, and

presently there was another rattle down on the deck.

Onwards and onwards we flew, in absolute darkness but for that red light

that made the sea shine like a foaming sea of blood. And the pressure

of the wind behind increased until it seemed likely to tear the canvas

off her spars.

"Down with the jib, then!" called out John of Skye; and we heard, but

could not see, the men at work forward. And still the _White Dove_ flew

onwards through the night, and the wind howled and whistled through the

rigging, and the boiling surges of foam swept away from her side. There

was no more of Rona light to guide us now; we were tearing through the

Sound of Scalpa; and still this hurricane seemed to increase in fury.

As a last resource, John of Skye had the peak lowered. We had now

nothing left but a mainsail about the size of a pocket-handkerchief.

As the night wore on, we got into more sheltered waters, being under the

lee of Scalpa; and we crept away down between that island and Skye,

seeking for a safe anchorage. It was a business that needed a sharp

look-out, for the waters are shallow here, and we discovered one or two

smacks at anchor, with no lights up. They did not expect any vessel to

run in from the open on a night like this.

And at last we chose our place for the night, letting go both anchors.

Then we went below, into the saloon.

"And how do you like sailing in the equinoctials, Mary?" said our

hostess.

"I am glad we are all round this table again, and alive," said the girl.

"I thought you said the other day you did not care whether the yacht

went down or not?"

"Of the two," remarked Miss Avon shyly, "it is perhaps better that she

should be afloat."

Angus was passing at the moment. He put his hand lightly on her

shoulder, and said, in a kind way--

"It is better not to tempt the unknown, Mary. Remember what the French

proverb says, 'quand on est mort, c'est pour longtemps.' And you know

you have not nearly completed that great series of _White Dove_ sketches

for the smoking-room at Denny-mains."

"The smoking-room!" exclaimed the Laird, indignantly. "There is not one

of her sketches that will not have a place--an honoured place--in my

dining-room: depend on that. Ye will see--both of ye--what I will do

with them; and the sooner ye come to see the better."

We this evening resolved that if, by favour of the winds and the valour

of John of Skye, we got up to Portree next day, we should at once

telegraph to the island of Lewis (where we proposed to cease these

summer wanderings) to inquire about the safety of certain friends of

ours whom we meant to visit there, and who are much given to yachting;

for the equinoctials must have blown heavily into Loch Roag, and the

little harbour at Borva is somewhat exposed. However, it was not likely

that they would allow themselves to be caught. They know something

about the sea, and about boats, at Borva.

*CHAPTER XVI.*

*AFTER THE GALE.*

"Well, indeed!" exclaimed the Laird, on putting his head out next

morning. "This is wonderful--wonderful!"

Was it the long imprisonment in the darkness of the equinoctials that

made him welcome with so much delight this spectacle of fair skies and

sapphire seas, with the waves breaking white in Scalpa Sound, and the

sunlight shining along the Coolins? Or was it not rather our long

isolation from the ordinary affairs of the world that made him greet

with acclamation this picture of brisk and busy human life, now visible

from the deck of the yacht? We were no longer alone in the world. Over

there, around the big black smacks--that looked like so many hens with

broods of chickens--swarmed a fleet of fishing-boats; and as rapidly as

hands could manage it, both men and women were shaking out the brown

nets and securing the glittering silver treasure of the sea. It was a

picturesque sight--the stalwart brown-bearded men in their yellow

oilskins and huge boots; the bare-armed women in their scarlet

short-gowns; the masses of ruddy brown nets; the lowered sails. And

then the Laird perceived that he was not alone in regarding this busy

and cheerful scene.

Along there by the bulwarks, with one hand on the shrouds and the other

on the gig, stood Mary Avon, apparently watching the boats passing to

and fro between the smacks and the shore. The Laird went gently up to

her, and put his hand on her shoulder. She started, turned round

suddenly, and then he saw, to his dismay, that her eyes were full of

tears.

"What, what?" said he, with a quick doubt and fear coming over him. Had

all his plans failed, then? Was the girl still unhappy?

"What is it, lass? What is the matter?" said he, gripping her hand so

as to get the truth from her.

By this time she had dried her eyes.

"Nothing--nothing," said she, rather shame-facedly. "I was only

thinking about the song of 'Caller Herring;' and how glad those women

must be to find their husbands come back this morning. Fancy their

being out on such a night as last night. What it must be to be a

fisherman's wife--and alone on shore----"

"Toots, toots, lass!" cried the Laird, with a splendid cheerfulness; for

he was greatly relieved that this was all the cause of the wet eyes.

"Ye are jist giving way to a sentiment. I have observed that people are

apt to be sentimental in the morning, before they get their breakfast.

What! are ye peetying these folk? I can tell ye this is a proud day for

them, to judge by they heaps o' fish. They are jist as happy as kings;

and as for the risk o' their trade, they have to do what is appointed to

them. Why, does not that Doctor friend o' yours say that the happiest

people are they who are hardest worked?"

This reference to the Doctor silenced the young lady at once.

"Not that I have much right to talk about work," said the Laird,

penitently. "I believe I am becoming the idlest crayture on the face of

this world."

At this point a very pretty little incident occurred. A boat was

passing to the shore; and in the stern of her was a young fisherman--a

handsome young fellow, with a sun-tanned face and yellow beard. As they

were going by the yacht, he caught a glimpse of Miss Avon; then when

they had passed, he said something in Gaelic to his two companions, who

immediately rested on their oars. Then he was seen rapidly to fill a

tin can with two or three dozen herrings; and his companions backed

their boat to the side of the yacht. The young fellow stood up in the

stern, and with a shy laugh--but with no speech, for he was doubtless

nervous about his English--offered this present to the young lady. She

was very much pleased; but she blushed quite as much as he did. And she

was confused, for she could not summon Master Fred to take charge of the

herrings, seeing this compliment was so directly paid to herself.

However, she boldly gripped the tin can, and said, "Oh, thank you very

much;" and by this time the Laird had fetched a bucket, into which the

glittering beauties were slipped. Then the can was handed back, with

further and profuse thanks, and the boat pushed off.

Suddenly, and with great alarm, Miss Avon remembered that Angus had

taught her what Highland manners were.

"Oh, I beg your pardon!" she called out to the bearded young fisherman,

who instantly turned round, and the oars were stopped. "I beg your

pardon," said she, with an extreme and anxious politeness, "but would

you take a glass of whisky?"

"No, thank ye, mem," said the fisherman, with another laugh of

friendliness on the frank face; and then away they went.

The girl was in despair. She was about to marry a Highlander, and

already she had forgotten the first of Highland customs. But unexpected

relief was at hand. Hearing something going on, John of Skye had

tumbled up from the forecastle, and instantly saw that the young lady

was sorely grieved that those friendly fishermen had not accepted this

return compliment. He called aloud, in Gaelic, and in a severe tone.

The three men came back, looking rather like schoolboys who would fain

escape from an embarrassing interview. And then at the same moment

Captain John, who had asked Fred to bring up the whisky-bottle, said in

a low voice to the young lady--

"They would think it ferry kind, mem, if you would pour out the whisky

with your own hand."

And this was done, Miss Mary going through the ceremony without

flinching; and as each of the men was handed his glass, he rose up in

the boat, and took off his cap, and drank the health of the young lady,

in the Gaelic. And Angus Sutherland, when he came on deck, was greatly

pleased to hear of what she had done; though the Laird took occasion to

remark at breakfast that he hoped it was not a common custom among the

young ladies of England to get up early in the morning to have

clandestine flirtations with handsome young fishermen.

Then all hands on deck: for now there are two anchors to be got in, and

we must not lose any of this pleasant sailing breeze. In these

sheltered and shining waters there are scarcely any traces of the recent

rough weather, except that the wind still comes in variable puffs, and

from all sorts of unexpected directions. In the main, however, it is N.

by E., and so we have to set to work to leisurely beat up the Sound of

Raasay.

"Well, this is indeed like old times, Mary!" Queen Titania cries, as she

comfortably ensconces herself in a camp-chair: for Miss Avon is at the

helm, and the young Doctor, lying at full length on the sunlit deck, is

watching the sails and criticising her steering; and the Laird is

demonstrating to a humble listener the immeasurable advantages enjoyed

by the Scotch landscape-painters, in that they have within so small a

compass every variety of mountain, lake, woodland, and ocean scenery.

He becomes facetious, too, about Miss Mary's sketches. What if he were

to have a room set apart for them at Denny-mains, to be called the

_White Dove_ Gallery? He might have a skilled decorator out from

Glasgow to devise the furniture and ornamentation, so that both should

suggest the sea, and ships, and sailors.

Here John of Skye comes aft.

"I think," says he to Miss Avon, with a modest smile, "we might put the

gaff topsail on her."

"Oh, yes, certainly," says this experienced mariner; and the Doctor,

seeing an opportunity for bestirring himself, jumps to his feet.

And so, with the topsail shining white in the sun--a thing we have not

seen for some time--we leave behind us the gloomy opening into Loch

Sligachan, and beat up through the Raasay narrows, and steal by the

pleasant woods of Raasay House. The Laird has returned to that project

of the Marine Gallery, and he has secured an attentive listener in the

person of his hostess, who prides herself that she has a sure instinct

as to what is "right" in mural decoration.

This is indeed like old times come back again. The light, cool breeze,

the warm decks, the pleasant lapping of the water, and our steerswoman

partly whistling and partly humming--

"They'll put a napkin round my e'en,

They'll no let me see to dee;

And they'll never let on to my faither and mither,

But I am awa' o'er the sea."

And this she is abstractedly and contentedly doing, without any notice

of the fact that the song is supposed to be a pathetic one.

Then our young Doctor: of what does he discourse to us during this

delightful daydreaming and idleness? Well, it has been remarked by more

than one of us that Dr. Angus has become tremendously practical of late.

You would scarcely have believed that this was the young F.R.S. who used

to startle the good Laird out of his wits by his wild speculations about

the origin of the world and similar trifles. Now his whole interest

seemed to be centred on the commonest things: all the Commissioners of

the Burgh of Strathgovan put together could not have been more fierce

than he was about the necessity of supplying houses with pure water, for

example. And the abuse that he heaped on the Water Companies of London,

more especially, and on the Government which did not interfere, was so

distinctly libellous that we are glad no alien overheard it.

Then as to arsenic in wall-papers: he was equally dogmatic and indignant

about that; and here it was his hostess, rather than the Laird, who was

interested. She eagerly committed to her note-book a recipe for testing

the presence of that vile metal in wall-papers or anything else; and

some of us had mentally to thank Heaven that she was not likely to get

test-tubes, and zinc filings, and hydrochloric acid in Portree. The

woman would have blown up the ship.

All this and much more was very different from the kind of conversation

that used so seriously to trouble the Laird. When he heard Angus talk

with great common sense and abundant information about the various

climates that suited particular constitutions, and about the best soils

for building houses on, and about the necessity for strict municipal

supervision of drainage, he was ready to believe that our young Doctor

had not only for his own part never handled that dangerous book the

_Vestiges of Creation_, but that he had never even known any one who had

glanced at its sophistical pages except with a smile of pity. Why, all

the time that we were shut up by the equinoctials, the only profound and

mysterious thing that Angus had said was this: "There is surely

something wrong when the man who takes on himself all the trouble of

drawing a bottle of ale is bound to give his friend the first tumbler,

which is clear, and keep the second tumbler, which is muddy, for

himself." But if you narrowly look into it, you will find that there is

really nothing dangerous or unsettling in this saying--no grumbling

against the ways of Providence whatsoever. It is mysterious, perhaps;

but then so would many of the nice points about the Semple case have

been, had we not had with us an able expositor.

And on this occasion, as we were running along for Portree, our F.R.S.

was chiefly engaged in warning us against paying too serious heed to

certain extreme theories about food and drink which were then being put

put forward by a number of distinguished physicians.

"For people in good health, the very worst adviser is the doctor," he

was saying; when he was gently reminded by his hostess that he must not

malign his own calling, or destroy a superstition that might in itself

have curative effects.

"Oh, I scarcely call myself a doctor," he said, "for I have no practice

as yet. And I am not denying the power of a physician to help nature in

certain cases--of course not; but what I say is that for healthy people

the doctor is the worst adviser possible. Why, where does he get his

experience?--from the study of people who are ill. He lives in an

atmosphere of sickness; his conclusions about the human body are drawn

from bad specimens; the effects that he sees produced are produced on

too sensitive subjects. Very likely, too, if he is himself a

distinguished physician, he has gone through an immense amount of

training and subsequent hard work; his own system is not of the

strongest; and he considers that what he feels to be injurious to him

must be injurious to other people. Probably so it might be--to people

similarly sensitive; but not necessarily to people in sound health.

Fancy a man trying to terrify people by describing the awful appearance

produced on one's internal economy when one drinks half a glass of

sherry! And that," he added, "is a piece of pure scientific

sensationalism; for precisely the same appearance is produced if you

drink half a glass of milk."

"I am of opinion," said the Laird, with the gravity befitting such a

topic, "that of all steemulants nothing is better or wholesomer than a

drop of sound, sterling whisky."

"And where are you likely to get it?----"

"I can assure ye, at Denny-mains----"

"I mean where are the masses of the people to get it? What they get is

a cheap white spirit, reeking with fusel-oil, with just enough whisky

blended to hide the imposture. The decoction is a certain poison. If

the Government would stop tinkering at Irish franchises, and Irish

tenures, and Irish Universities, and would pass a law making it penal

for any distiller to sell spirits that he has not had in bond for at

least two years, they would do a good deal more service to Ireland, and

to this country too."

"Still, these measures of amelioration must have their effect," observed

the Liard, sententiously. "I would not discourage wise legislation. We

will reconcile Ireland sooner or later, if we are prudent and

conseederate."

"You may as well give them Home Rule at once," said Dr. Angus, bluntly.

"The Irish have no regard for the historical grandeur of England; how

could they?--they have lost their organ of veneration. The coronal

region of the skull has in time become depressed, through frequent

shillelagh practice."

For a second the Laird glanced at him: there was a savour of George

Combe about this speech. Could it be that he believed in that monstrous

and atheistical theory?

But no. The Laird only laughed; and said:

"I would not like to have an Irishman hear ye say so."

It was now abundantly clear to us that Denny-mains could no longer

suspect of anything heterodox and destructive this young man who was

sound on drainage, pure air, and a constant supply of water to the

tanks.

Of course, we could not get into Portree without Ben Inivaig having a

tussle with us. This mountain is the most inveterate brewer of squalls

in the whole of the West Highlands, and it is his especial delight to

catch the unwary, when all their eyes are bent on the safe harbour

within. But we were equal with him. Although he tried to tear our

masts out and frighten us out of our senses, all that he really

succeeded in doing was to put us to a good deal of trouble and break a

tumbler or two below. We pointed the finger of scorn at Ben Inivaig.

We sailed past him, and took no more notice of him. With a favouring

breeze, and with our topsail still set, we glided into the open and

spacious harbour.

But that first look round was a strange one. Was this really Portree

Harbour, or were we so many Rip Van Winkles? There were the shining

white houses, and the circular bay, and the wooded cliffs; but where

were the yachts that used to keep the place so bright and busy? There

was not an inch of white canvas visible. We got to anchor near a couple

of heavy smacks; the men looked at us as if we had dropped from the

skies.

We went ashore and walked up to the telegraph office to see whether the

adjacent islands of great Britain and Ireland--as the Cumbrae minister

called them--had survived the equinoctials; and learned only too

accurately what serious mischief had been done all along these coasts by

the gale. From various points, moreover, we subsequently received

congratulations on our escape, until we almost began to believe that we

had really been in serious peril. For the rest, our friends at Borva

were safe enough; they had not been on board their yacht at all.

That evening, in the silent and deserted bay, a council of war was held

on deck. We were not, as it turned out, quite alone; there had also

come in a steam yacht, the master of which informed our John of Skye

that such a gale he had not seen for three-and-twenty years. He also

told us that there was a heavy sea running in the Minch; and that no

vessel would try to cross. Stornoway Harbour, we already knew, was

filled with storm-stayed craft. So we had to decide.

Like the very small and white-faced boy who stood forth to declaim

before a school-full of examiners and friends, and who raised his hand,

and announced in a trembling falsetto that his voice was still for war,

it was the women who spoke first, and they were for going right on the

next morning.

"Mind," said Angus Sutherland, looking anxiously at certain dark eyes;

"there is generally a good sea in the Minch in the best of weathers; but

after a three or four days'--well----"

"I, for one, don't care," said Miss Avon, frankly regarding him.

"And I should like it," said the other woman, "so long as there is

plenty of wind. But if Captain John takes me out into the middle of the

Minch and keeps me rolling about on the Atlantic in a dead calm, then

something will befall him that his mother knew nothing about."

Here Captain John was emboldened to step forward, and to say, with an

embarrassed politeness--

"I not afraid of anything for the leddies; for two better sailors I

never sah ahl my life lang."

However, the final result of our confabulation that night was the

resolve to get under way next morning, and proceed a certain distance

until we should discover what the weather was like outside. With a fair

wind, we might run the sixty miles to Stornoway before night; without a

fair wind, there was little use in our adventuring out to be knocked

about in the North Minch, where the Atlantic finds itself jammed into

the neck of a bottle, and rebels in a somewhat frantic fashion. We must

do our good friends in Portree the justice to say that they endeavoured

to dissuade us; but then we had sailed in the _White Dove_ before, and

had no great fear of her leading us into any trouble.

And so, good-night!--good-night! We can scarcely believe that this is

Portree Harbour, so still and quiet it is. All the summer fleet of

vessels have fled; the year has gone with them; soon we, too, must

betake ourselves to the south. Good-night!--good-night! The peace of

the darkness falls over us; if there is any sound, it is the sound of

singing in our dreams.

[Illustration: Music fragment]

*CHAPTER XVII.*

*"A GOOD ONE FOR THE LAST."*

"Ah, well, well," said the Laird, somewhat sadly, to his hostess, "I

suppose we may now conseeder that we have started on our last day's

sailing in the _White Dove_?"

"I suppose so," said she; and this was before breakfast, so she may have

been inclined to be a bit sentimental too.

"I'm thinking," said he, "that some of us may hereafter look back on

this sailing as the longest and grandest holiday of their life, and will

recall the name of the _White Dove_ with a certain amount of affection.

I, for one, feel that I can scarcely justify myself for withdrawing so

long from the duties that society demands from every man; and no doubt

there will be much to set right when one goes back to Strathgovan. But

perhaps one has been able to do something even in one's idleness----"

He paused here, and remained silent for a moment or two.

"What a fine thing," he continued, "it must be for a doctor to watch the

return of health to a patient's face--to watch the colour coming back,

and the eyes looking happy again, and the spirits rising; and to think

that maybe he has helped. And if he happens to know the patient, and to

be as anxious about her as if she were his own child, do not ye think he

must be a proud man when he sees the results of what he has done for

her, and when he hears her begin to laugh again?"

Despite the Laird's profound ingenuity, we knew very well who that

doctor was. And we had learned something about the affection which this

mythical physician had acquired for this imaginary patient.

"What a sensitive bit crayture she is!" said he, suddenly, as if he were

now talking of some quite different person. "Have ye seen the

difference the last few days have made on her face--have ye not observed

it?"

"Yes, indeed I have."

"Ye would imagine that her face was just singing a song from the morning

till the night--I have never seen any one with such expressive eyes as

that bit lass has--and--and--it is fairly a pleasure to any one to look

at the happiness of them."

"Which she owes to you, sir."

"To me?" said the Laird. "Dear me!--not to me. It was a fortunate

circumstance that I was with ye on board the yacht, that is all. What I

did no man who had the chance could have refused to do. No, no; if the

lass owes any gratitude to anybody or anything it is to the Semple

case."

"What?"

"Just so, ma'am," said the Laird composedly. "I will confess to ye that

a long holiday spent in sailing had not that attraction for me it might

have had for others--though I think I have come to enjoy it now with the

best of ye; but I thought, when ye pressed me to come, that it would be

a grand opportunity to get your husband to take up the Semple case, and

master it thoroughly, and put its merits in a just manner before the

public. That he does not appear to be as much interested in it as I had

reason to expect is a misfortune--perhaps he will grow to see the

importance of the principles involved in it in time; but I have ceased

to force it on his attention. In the meanwhile we have had a fine, long

holiday, which has at least given me leisure to consider many schemes

for the advantage of my brother pareeshioners. Ay; and where is Miss

Mary though?"

"She and Angus have been up for hours, I believe," said his hostess. "I

heard them on deck before we started anyway."

"I would not disturb them," said the Laird, with much consideration.

"They have plenty to talk about--all their life opening up before

them--like a road through a garden, as one might say. And whatever

befalls them hereafter I suppose they will always remember the present

time as the most beautiful of their existence--the wonder of it, the

newness, the hope. It is a strange thing that. Ye know, ma'am, that

our garden at Denny-mains, if I may say so, is far from insigneeficant.

It has been greatly commended by experienced landscape gardeners. Well,

now, that garden, when it is just at its fullest of summer colour--with

all its dahlias and hollyhocks and what not--I say ye cannot get half as

much delight from the whole show as ye get from the first glint o' a

primrose, as ye are walking through a wood, on a bleak March day, and

not expecting to see anything of the kind. Does not that make your heart

jump?"

Here the Laird had to make way for Master Fred and the breakfast tray.

"There is not a bairn about Strathgovan," he continued, with a laugh,

"knows better than myself where to find the first primroses and

bluebells and the red deadnettle, ye know, and so on. Would ye believe

it, that poor crayture, Johnny Guthrie was for cutting down the hedge in

the Coulterburn Road, and putting up a stone dyke!" Here the Laird's

face grew more and more stern, and he spoke with unnecessary vehemence.

"I make bold to say that the man who would cut down a hawthorn hedge

where the children go to gather their bits o' flowers, and would put in

its place a stone wall for no reason on the face of the earth, I say

that man is an ass--an intolerable and perneecious ass!"

But this fierceness instantly vanished, for here was Mary Avon come in

to bid him good morning. And he rose and took both her hands in his

and regarded the upturned smiling face and the speaking eyes.

"Ay, ay, lass," said he, with great satisfaction and approval, "ye have

got the roses into your cheeks at last. That is the morning air--the

'roses weet wi' dew'--it is a fine habit that of early rising. Dear me,

what a shilpit bit thing ye were when I first saw ye about three months

ago. And now I daresay ye are just as hungry as a hawk with walking up

and down the deck in the sea-air--we will not keep ye waiting a moment."

The Laird got her a chair, next his own of course; and then rang Master

Fred's bell violently.

"How's her head, skipper?" said Queen T., when the young Doctor made his

appearance--he had roses, too, in his cheeks, freshened by the morning

air.

"Well," said he frankly, as he sate down, "I think it would be judicious

to have breakfast over as soon as possible; and get the things stowed

away. We are flying up the Sound of Raasay like a witch on a broom; and

there will be a roaring sea when we get beyond the shelter of Skye."

"We have been in roaring seas before," said she, confidently.

"We met a schooner coming into Portree Harbour this morning," said he,

with a dry smile. "She left yesterday afternoon just before we got in.

They were at it all night, but had to run back at last. They said they

had got quite enough of it."

This was a little more serious, but the women were not to be daunted.

They had come to believe in the _White Dove_ being capable of anything,

especially when a certain aid to John of Skye was on board. For the

rest, the news was that the day was lovely, the wind fair for Stornoway,

and the yacht flying northward like an arrow.

There was a certain solemnity, nevertheless, or perhaps only an unusual

elaborateness, about our preparations before going on deck. Gun-cases

were wedged in in front of canvases, so that Miss Avon's sketches should

not go rolling on to the floor; all such outlying skirmishers as

candlesticks, aneroids, draught-boards, and the like, were moved to the

rear of compact masses of rugs; and then the women were ordered to array

themselves in their waterproofs. Waterproofs?--and the sun flooding

through the skylight! But they obeyed.

Certainly there did not seem to be any great need for waterproofs when

we got above and had the women placed in a secure corner of the

companion-way. It was a brilliant, breezy, blue-skied morning, with the

decks as yet quite white and dry, and with the long mountainous line of

Skye shining in the sun. The yacht was flying along at a famous pace

before a fresh and steady breeze; already we could make out, far away on

the northern horizon, a pale, low, faint-blue line, which we knew to be

the hills of southern Lewis. Of course, one had to observe that the

vast expanse of sea lying between us and that far line was of a stormy

black; moreover, the men had got on their oilskins, though not a drop of

spray was coming on board.

As we spun along, however, before the freshening wind, the crashes of

the waves at the bows became somewhat more heavy, and occasionally some

jets of white foam would spring up into the sunlight. When it was

suggested to Captain John that he might set the gaff topsail, he very

respectfully and shyly shook his head. For one thing, it was rather

strange that on this wide expanse of sea not a solitary vessel was

visible.

Farther and farther northward. And now one has to look out for the

white water springing over the bows, and there is a general ducking of

heads when the crash forward gives warning. The decks are beginning to

glisten now; and Miss Avon has received one sharp admonition to be more

careful, which has somewhat damped and disarranged her hair. And so the

_White Dove_ still flies to the north--like an arrow--like a witch on a

broom--like a hare, only that none of these things would groan so much

in getting into the deep troughs of the sea; and not even a witch on a

broom could perform such capers in the way of tumbling and tossing, and

pitching and rolling.

However all this was mere child's play. We knew very well when and

where we should really "get it": and we got it. Once out of the shelter

of the Skye coast, we found a considerably heavy sea swinging along the

Minch, and the wind was still freshening up, insomuch that Captain John

had to take the mizen and foresail off her. How splendidly those

mountain masses of waves came heaving along--apparently quite black

until they came near, and then we could see the sunlight shining green

through the breaking crest; then there was a shock at the bows that

caused the yacht to shiver from stem to stern; then a high springing

into the air, followed by a heavy rattle and rush on the decks. The

scuppers were of no use at all; there was a foot and a half of hissing

and seething salt water all along the lee bulwarks, and when the gangway

was lifted to let it out the next rolling wave only spouted an equal

quantity up on deck, soaking Dr. Angus Sutherland to the shoulder. Then

a heavier sea than usual struck her, carrying off the cover of the fore

hatch and sending it spinning aft; while, at the same moment, a voice

from the forecastle informed Captain John in an injured tone that this

last invader had swamped the men's berths. What could he do but have

the main tack hauled up to lighten the pressure of the wind? The waters

of the Minch, when once they rise, are not to be stilled by a bottle of

salad oil.

We had never before seen the ordinarily buoyant _White Dove_ take in

such masses of water over her bows; but we soon got accustomed to the

seething lake of water along the lee scuppers, and allowed it to subside

or increase as it liked. And the women were now seated a step lower on

the companion-way, so that the rags of the waves flew by them without

touching them; and there was a good deal of laughing and jesting going

on at the clinging and stumbling of any unfortunate person who had to

make his way along the deck. As for our indefatigable Doctor, his face

had been running wet with salt water for hours; twice he had slipped and

gone headlong to leeward; and now, with a rope double twisted round the

tiller, he was steering, his teeth set hard.

"Well, Mary," shrieked Queen Titania into her companion's ear. "We are

having a good one for the last!"

"Is he going up the mast?" cried the girl in great alarm.

"I say we are having a good one for the last!"

"Oh, yes!" was the shout in reply. "She is indeed going fast!"

But about mid-day we passed within a few miles to the east of the Shiant

Islands, and here the sea was somewhat moderated, so we tumbled below

for a snack of lunch. The women wanted to devote the time to dressing

their hair and adorning themselves anew; but purser Sutherland objected

to this altogether. He compelled them to eat and drink while that was

possible; and several toasts were proposed--briefly, but with much

enthusiasm. Then we scrambled on deck again. We found that John had

hoisted his foresail again, but he had let the mizen alone.

Northward and ever northward--and we are all alone on this wide, wide

sea. But that pale line of coast at the horizon is beginning to resolve

itself into definite form--into long, low headlands, some of which are

dark in shadow, others shining in the sun. And then the cloudlike

mountains beyond; can these be the far Suainabhal and Mealasabhal, and

the other giants that look down on Loch Roag and the western shores?

They seem to belong to a world beyond the sea.

Northward and ever northward; and there is less water coming over now,

and less groaning and plunging, so that one can hear oneself speak. And

what is this wagering on the part of the Doctor that we shall do the

sixty miles between Portree and Stornoway within the six hours? John of

Skye shakes his head; but he has the main tack hauled down.

Then, as the day wears on, behold! a small white object in that line of

blue. The cry goes abroad: it is Stornoway Light!

"Come, now, John!" the Doctor calls aloud. "Within the six hours--for a

glass of whisky and a lucky sixpence!"

"We not at Styornaway Light yet," answered the prudent John of Skye, who

is no gambler. But all the same, he called two of the men aft to set the

mizen again; and as for himself, he threw off his oilskins and appeared

in his proud uniform once more. This looked like business.

Well, it was not within the six hours, but it was within the six hours

and a half, that we sailed past Stornoway lighthouse and its outstanding

perch; and past a floating target with a red flag, for artillery

practice; and past a barque which had been driven ashore two days

before, and now stuck there, with her back broken. And this was a

wonderful sight--after the lone, wide seas--to see such a mass of ships

of all sorts and sizes crowded in here for fear of the weather. We read

their names in the strange foreign type as we passed--_Die Heimath_,

_Georg Washington_, _Friedrich der Grosse_, and the like--and we saw the

yellow-haired Norsemen pulling between the vessels in their odd-looking

double-bowed boats. And was not John of Skye a proud man that day, as

he stood by the tiller in his splendour of blue and brass buttons,

knowing that he had brought the _White Dove_ across the wild waters of

the Minch, when not one of these foreigners would put his nose outside

the harbour?

The evening light was shining over the quiet town, and the shadowed

castle, and the fir-tipped circle of hills, when the _White Dove_

rattled out her anchor chain and came to rest. And as this was our last

night on board, there was a good deal of packing and other trouble. It

was nearly ten o'clock when we came together again.

The Laird was in excellent spirits that night, and was more than

ordinarily facetious; but his hostess refused to be comforted. A

thousand Homeshes could not have called up a smile. For she had grown

to love this scrambling life on board; and she had acquired a great

affection for the yacht itself; and now she looked round this old and

familiar saloon, in which we had spent so many snug and merry evenings

together; and she knew she was looking at it for the last time.

At length, however, the Laird bethought himself of arousing her from her

sentimental sadness, and set to work to joke her out of it. He told her

she was behaving like a school-girl come to the end of her holiday.

Well, she only further behaved like a schoolgirl by letting her lips

begin to tremble; and then she stealthily withdrew to her own cabin; and

doubtless had a good cry there. There was no help for it, however: the

child had to give up its plaything at last.

*CHAPTER XVIII.*

*ADIEU.*

Next morning, also: why should this tender melancholy still dwell in the

soft and mournful eyes? The sunlight was shining cheerfully on the

sweep of wooded hill, on the grey castle, on the scattered town, and on

the busy quays. Busy was scarcely the word: there was a wild excitement

abroad, for a vast take of herring had just been brought in. There,

close in by the quays, were the splendidly-built luggers, with their

masts right at their bows; and standing up in them their stalwart crews,

bronze-faced, heavy-bearded, with oilskin caps, and boots up to their

thighs. Then on the quays above the picturesquely-costumed women busy

at the salting; and agents eagerly chaffering with the men; and empty

barrels coming down in unknown quantities. Bustle, life, excitement

pervaded the whole town; but our tender-hearted hostess, as we got

ashore, seemed to pay no heed to it. As she bade good-bye to the men,

shaking hands with each there were tears in her eyes; if she had wished

to cast a last glance in the direction of the _White Dove_, she could

scarcely have seen the now still and motionless craft.

But by and by, when we had left our heavier luggage at the inn, and when

we set out to drive across the island to visit some friends of ours who

live on the western side, she grew somewhat more cheerful. Here and

there a whiff of the fragrant peat-smoke caught us as we passed,

bringing back recollections of other days. Then she had one or two

strangers to inform and instruct; and she was glad thai Mary Avon had a

bright day for her drive across the Lewis.

"But what a desolate place it must be on a wet day," that young person

remarked, as she looked away across the undulating moors, vast, and

lonely, and silent.

Now, at all events, the drive was pleasant enough: for the sunlight

brought out the soft ruddy browns of the bog-land, and ever and again

the blue and white surface of a small loch flashed back the daylight

from amid that desolation. Then occasionally the road crossed a

brawling stream, and the sound of it was grateful enough in the

oppressive silence. In due course of time we reached Garra na-hina.

Our stay at the comfortable little hostelry was but brief, for the boat

to be sent by our friends had not arrived, and it was proposed that in

the meantime we should walk along the coast to show our companions the

famous stones of Callernish. By this time Queen Titania had quite

recovered her spirits, and eagerly assented, saying how pleasant a walk

would be after our long confinement on shipboard.

It was indeed a pleasant walk, through a bright and cheerful piece of

country. And as we went along we sometimes turned to look around us--at

the waters of the Black River, a winding line of silver through the

yellow and brown of the morass; and at the placid blue waters of Loch

Roag, with the orange line of seaweed round the rocks; and at the far

blue bulk of Suainabhal. We did not walk very fast; and indeed we had

not got anywhere near the Callernish stones, when the sharp eye of our

young Doctor caught sight of two new objects that had come into this

shining picture. The first was a large brown boat, rowed by four

fishermen; the second was a long and shapely boat--like the pinnace of a

yacht--also pulled by four men, in blue jerseys and scarlet caps. There

was no one in the stern of the big boat; but in the stern of the gig

were three figures, as far as we could make out.

Now no sooner had our attention been called to the two boats which had

just come round the point of an island out there, than our good Queen

Titania became greatly excited, and would have us all go out to the top

of a small headland and frantically wave our handkerchiefs there. Then

we perceived that the second boat instantly changed its course, and was

being steered for the point on which we stood. We descended to the

shore and went out on to some rocks, Queen Titania becoming quite

hysterical.

"Oh, how kind of her! how kind of her!" she cried, "to come so far to

meet us!"

For it now appeared that these three figures in the stern of the white

pinnace, were the figures of a young lady, who was obviously steering,

and of two small boys, one on each side of her, and both dressed as

young sailors. And the steerswoman--she had something of a sailor-look

about her too; for she was dressed in navy blue; and she wore a straw

hat with a blue ribbon and letters of gold. But you would scarcely have

looked at the smart straw hat when you saw the bright and laughing face,

and the beautiful eyes that seemed to speak to you long before she could

get to shore.

And then the boat was run into a small creak; and the young lady stepped

lightly out--she certainly was young-looking, by the way, to be the

mother of those two small sailors--and she quickly and eagerly and

gladly caught Queen Titania with both her hands.

"Oh, indeed I beg your pardon," said she--and her speech was exceedingly

pleasant to hear--"but I did not think you could be so soon over from

Styornaway."

[_Note by Queen Titania_.--It appears that now all our voyaging is over,

and we are about to retire into privacy again, I am expected, as on a

previous occasion, to come forward and address to you a kind of

epilogue, just as they do on the stage. This seems to me a sort of

strange performance at the end of a yachting cruise, for what if a

handful of salt water were to come over the bows and put out my trumpery

footlights? However, what must be must, as married women know: and so I

would first of all say a word to the many kind people who were so _very_

good to us in these distant places in the north. You may think it

strange to associate such things as fresh vegetables, or a basket of

flowers, or a chicken, or a bottle of milk, or even a bunch of white

heather, with sentiment; but people who have been sailing in the West

Highlands do not think so--indeed, they know which is the most obliging

and friendly and hospitable place _in the whole world_. And then a word

to the reader. If I might hope that it is the same reader who has been

with us in other climes in other years--who may have driven with us

along the devious English lanes; and crossed the Atlantic, and seen the

big canons of the Rocky Mountains; and lived with us among those dear

old people in the Black Forest; and walked with us on Mickleham Downs in

the starlight, why, then, he may forgive us for taking him on such a

tremendous long holiday in these Scotch lochs. But we hope that if ever

he goes into these wilds for himself, he will get as good a skipper as

John of Skye, and have as pleasant and _true_ a friend on board as the

Laird of Denny-mains. Perhaps I may add, just to explain everything,

that we are all invited to Denny-mains to spend Christmas; and something

is going to happen there; and the Laird says that so far from objecting

to a ceremony in the Episcopal Church, he will himself be present and

give away the bride. It is even hinted that Mr. Tom Galbraith may come

from Edinburgh as a great compliment: and then no doubt we shall all be

introduced to him. And so--Good-bye!--Good-bye!--and another

message--_from the heart_--to all the kind people who befriended us in

those places far away!----T.]

THE END.

LONDON: R. CLAY, SONS, AND TAYLOR, PRINTERS.