Cambridge, who was now living a very easy life in the Middle Temple, and who would no doubt come in for Dennymains? Well, we knew a little about that young man, too. We knew why the Laird, when he found that both the boy's father and mother were dead, adopted him, and educated him, and got him to call him uncle. He had taken under his care the son of the woman who had jilted him five-and-thirty years ago; the lad had his mother's eyes.

And now we are assembled in the drawing-room-all except the new guest; and the glow of the sunset is shining in at the open windows. The Laird is eagerly proving to us that the change from the cold east winds of Edinburgh to the warm westerly winds of the Highlands must make an immediate change in the young lady's face and declaring that she ought to go on board the yacht at once-and asserting that the ladies' cabin on board the White Dove is the most beautiful little cabin he ever saw-when

When, behold! at the open door-meeting the glow of the sunshine-appears a figure-dressed all in black velvet, plain and unadorned but for a broad belt of gold fringe that comes round the neck and crosses the bosom. And above that again is a lot of white muslin stuff, on which the small, shapely, smooth-dressed head seems gently to rest. The plain black velvet dress gives a certain importance and substantiality to the otherwise slight figure; the broad fringe of gold glints and gleams as she moves toward us; but who can even think of these things when he meets the brave glance of Mary Avon's eyes? She was humming as she came down the stair

"Oh, think na lang, lassie, though I gang awa; For I'll come and see ye, in spite o' them a',"

-we might have known it was the birdsoul come among us.

Now the manner in which the Laird of Denny-mains set about capturing the affections of this innocent young thingas he sate opposite her at dinner-would have merited severe reproof in one of less mature age; and might, indeed, have been followed by serious consequences but for the very decided manner in which Miss Avon showed that she could

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Whoever heard

take care of herself. Mary Avon laugh would have been assured. And she did laugh a good deal ; for the Laird, determined to amuse her, was relating a series of anecdotes which he called good ones," and which seemed to have afforded great enjoyment to the people of the south of Scotland during the last century or So. There was in especial a Highland steward of a steamer about whom a vast number of these stories was told; and if the point was at times rather difficult to catch, who could fail to be tickled by the Laird's own and obvious enjoyment? There was another good one, Miss Avon," he would say; and then the bare memory of the great facetiousness of the anecdote would break out in such half-suppressed guffaws as altogether to stop the current of the narrative. Miss Avon laughed-we could not quite tell whether it was at the Highland steward or the Laird-until the tears ran down her cheeks. Dinner was scarcely thought of. It was a disgraceful exhibition.

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"There was another good one about Homesh," said the Laird, vainly endeavoring to suppress his laughter. "He came up on deck one enormously hot day, and looked ashore, and saw some cattle standing knee-deep in a pool of water. Says he-ha! ha! ha-ho! ho ho !-says he says he- A wish a wass a stot!-he! he he!-ho! ho! ho!"'

Of course we all laughed heartily, and Mary Avon more than any of us; but if she had gone down on her knees and sworn that she knew what the point of the story was, we should not have believed her. But the Laird was delighted. He went on with his good ones. The mythical Homesh and his idiotic adventures became portentous. The very servants could scarcely carry the dishes straight.

But in the midst of it all the Laird suddenly let his knife and fork drop on his plate, and stared. Then he quickly exclaimed

"Bless me! lassie !"

We saw in a second what had occasioned his alarm. The girl's face had become ghastly white; and she was almost falling away from her chair when her hostess, who happened to spring to her feet first, caught her, and held her,

and called for water. What could it mean? Mary Avon was not of the sighing and fainting fraternity.

And presently she came to herselfand faintly making apologies, would go from the room. It was her ankle, she murmured-with the face still white with pain. But when she tried to rise, she fell back again: the agony was too great. And so we had to carry her.

About ten minutes thereafter the mistress of the house came back to the Laird, who had been sitting by himself, in great concern.

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That girl! that girl!" she exclaims -and one might almost imagine there are tears in her eyes. Can you fancy such a thing! She twists her ankle in getting down from the wagonettebrings back the old sprain-perhaps lames herself for life-and, in spite of the pain, sits here laughing and joking, so that she may not spoil our first evening together! Did you ever hear of such a thing! Sitting here laughing, with her ankle swelled so that I had to cut the boot off!"

"Gracious me!" says the Laird; "is it as bad as that?"

"And if she should become permanently lame-why-why-"

But was she going to make an appeal direct to the owner of Denny-mains? If the younger men were not likely to marry a lame little white-faced girl, that was none of his business. The Laird's marrying days had departed five-andthirty years before.

However, we had to finish our dinner, somehow, in consideration to our elder guest. And then the surgeon came; and bound up the ankle hard and fast; and, Miss Avon, with a thousand meek apologies for being so stupid, declared again and again that her foot would be all right in the morning, and that we must get ready to start. And when her friend assured her that this preliminary canter of the yacht might just as well be put. off for a few days-until, for example, that young doctor from Edinburgh came who had been invited to go a proper cruise with us her distress was so great that we had to promise to start next day punctually at ten. So she sent us down again to amuse the Laird.

But hark! what is this we hear, just as Denny-mains is having his whiskey

and hot water brought in? It is a gay voice humming on the stairs

By the margin of fair Zürich's waters." "That girl!" cries her hostess angrily, as she jumps to her feet.

But the door opens; and here is Mary Avon, with calm self-possession, making her way to a chair.

"I knew you wouldn't believe me,” says she coolly, "if I did not come down. I tell you my foot is as well as may be ; and Dot-and-carry-one will get down to the yacht in the morning as easily as any of you. And that last story about Homesh," she says to the Laird, with a smile in the soft black eyes that must have made his heart jump. Really, sir, you must tell me the ending of that story; it was so stupid of me!"

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Shilpit" she may have been; but the Laird, for one, was beginning to believe that this girl had the courage and nerve of a dozen men.

CHAPTER III.

UNDER WAY.

THE first eager glance out on this brilliant and beautiful morning; and behold! it is all a wonder of blue seas and blue skies that we find before us, with Lismore lying golden-green in the sunlight, and the great mountains of Mull and Morven shining with the pale ethereal colors of the dawn. And what are the rhymes that are ringing through one's brain-the echo perchance of something heard far away among the islands-the islands that await our coming in the west ?—

"O land of red heather! O land of wild weather, And the cry of the waves, and the laugh of the

breeze!

O love, now, together

Through the wind and wild weather We spread our white sails to encounter the seas!"

Up and out, laggards, now; and hoist this big red and blue and white thing up to the head of the tall pole, that the lads far below may know to send the gig ashore for us! And there, on the ruffled blue waters of the bay, behold! the noble White Dove, with her great mainsail, and mizzen, and jib, all set and glowing in the sun; and the scarlet

caps of the men are like points of fire in this fair blue picture; and the red ensign is fluttering in the light northwesterly breeze. Breakfast is hurried over; and a small person who has a passion for flowers is dashing hither and thither in the garden until she has amassed an armful of our old familiar friends abundant roses, fuchsias, heart's-ease, various colored columbine, and masses of southernwood to scent our floating saloon; the wagonette is at the door, to take our invalid down to the landing-slip; and the Laird has discarded his dignified costume, and appears in a shooting-coat and a vast gray wide-awake. As for Mary Avon, she is laughing, chatting, singing, here, there, and everywhere-giving us to understand that a sprained ankle is rather a pleasure than otherwise, and a great assistance in walking; until the Laird pounces upon her as one might pounce on a butterfly—and imprisons her in the wagonette, with many a serious warning about her imprudence. There let her sing to herself as she likes-amid the wild confusion of things forgotten till the last moment and thrust upon us just

as we start.

And here is the stalwart and brownbearded Captain John-John of Skye we call him-himself come ashore in the gig, in all his splendor of blue and brass buttons; and he takes off his peaked cap to the mistress of our householdwhom some of her friends call Queen Titania, because of her midge-like size -and he says to her with a smile"And will Mrs. herself be going with us this time?"

That is Captain John's chief concern : for he has a great regard for this domineering small woman; and shows his respect for her, and his own high notions of courtesy, by invariably addressing her in the third person.

"Oh yes, John !" says she-and she can look pleasant enough when she likes -" and this is a young friend of mine, Miss Avon, whom you have to take great care of on board."

And Captain John takes off his cap again; and is understood to tell the young lady that he will do his best, if she will excuse his not knowing much English. Then, with great care, and with some difficulty, Miss Avon is as

sisted down from the wagonette, and conducted along the rough little landingslip, and helped into the stern of the shapely and shining gig. shapely and shining gig. Away with her, boys! The splash of the oars is heard in the still bay; the shore recedes; the white sails seem to rise higher into the blue sky as we near the yacht; here is the black hull with its line of gold-the gangway open-the ropes ready-the white decks brilliant in the sun. We are on board at last.

And where will Mr. - himself be for going?" asks John of Skye, as the men are hauling the gig up to the davits.

Mr. briefly but seriously explains to the captain that, from some slight experience of the winds on this coast, he has found it of about as much use to order the tides to be changed as to settle upon any definite route. But he suggests the circumnavigation of the adjacent island of Mull as a sort of preliminary canter for a few days, until a certain notable guest shall arrive; and he would prefer going by the south, if the honorable winds will permit. Further, John of Skye is not to be afraid of a bit of sea, on account of either of those ladies; both are excellent sailors. With these somewhat vague instructions, Captain John is left to get the yacht under weigh; and we go below to look after the stowage of our things in the various state-rooms.

And what is this violent altercation going on in the saloon?

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"I will not have a word said against my captain," says Mary Avon. I am in love with him already. His English is perfectly correct."

This impertinent minx talking about correct English in the presence of the Laird of Denny-mains!

"Mrs. herself' is perfectly correct; it is only politeness; it is like saying Your Grace' to a Duke."

6

But who was denying it? Surely not the imperious little woman who was arranging her flowers on the saloon-table; nor yet Denny-mains, who was examining a box of variegated and recondite fishing-tackle?

"It is all very well for fine ladies to laugh at the blunders of servant maids," continues this audacious girl. "Miss Brown presents her compliments to Miss Smith; and would you be so kind,' and

Well, this was a discovery! "Doesn't Mrs. So-and-so request the honor of the company of Mr. So-and-so or Miss So-and-so for some purpose or other; and then you find at one corner of the card R. S. V. P.'? ‘Answer, if you please'!"

A painful silence prevailed. We began to reflect. Whom did she mean to charge with this deadly crime?

But her triumph makes her considerate. She will not harry us with scorn. "It is becoming far less common now, however," she remarks. "An answer is requested,' is much more sensible."

"It is English," says the Laird, with decision. "Surely it must be more sensible for an English person to write English. Ah never use a French word maself."

But what is the English that we hear now-called out on deck by the voice of John of Skye ?

"Eachan, slack the lee topping-lift! Ay, and the tackle, too. That'll do, boys. Down with your main-tack, now!' Why," exclaims our sovereign mistress, who knows something of nautical matters, "we must have started."

Then there is a tumbling up the companion-way; and lo! the land is slowly. leaving us; and there is a lapping of the blue water along the side of the boat; and the white sails of the White Dove are filled with this gentle breeze. Deckstools are arranged; books and fieldglasses and what not scattered about; Mary Avon is helped on deck, and ensconced in a snug little camp-chair. The days of our summer idleness have begun. And as yet these are but familiar scenes that steal slowly by the long green island of Lismore-Lios-mor, the Great Garden; the dark ruins of Duart, sombre as if the shadow of nameless tragedies rested on the crumbling walls; Loch Don, with its sea-bird-haunted shallows; and Loch Speliv leading up to the awful solitudes of Glen More; then, stretching far into the wreathing clouds, the long rampart of precipices, rugged and barren and lonely, that form the eastern wall of Mull.

There is no monotony on this beautiful summer morning; the scene changes

us away to the south. For there is the Sheep Island; and Garveloch-which is the rough island; and Eilean-nanaomha-which is the island of the Saints. But what are these to the small transparent cloud resting on the horizon?— smaller than any man's hand. The day is still; and the seas are smooth: cannot we hear the mermaiden singing on the far shores of Colonsay?

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Colonsay!" exclaims the Laird, seizing a field-glass. "Dear me! Is that Colonsay? And they telled me that Tom Galbraith was going there this very year."

The piece of news fails to startle us altogether; though we have heard the Laird speak of Mr. Galbraith before.

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"Ay," says he, the world will know something o' Colonsay when Tom Galbraith gets there."

"Whom did you say?" Miss Avon

asks.

"Why, Galbraith!" says he. "Tom Galbraith!"

The Laird stares in amazement. Is it possible she has not heard of Tom Galbraith? And she herself an artist; and coming direct from Edinburgh, where she has been living for two whole months!

"Gracious me!" says the Laird. "Ye do not say ye have never heard of Galbraith - he's an Academeecian! -a Scottish Academeecian !''

"Oh, yes, no doubt," she says, rather bewildered.

"There is no one living has had such an influence on our Scotch school of painters as Galbraith-a man of great abeelity-a man of great and uncommon abeelity he is one of the most famous landscape painters of our day—"

"I scarcely met any one in Edinburgh," she pleads.

But in London-in London !" exclaims the astonished Laird. "Do you mean to say you never heard o' Tom Galbraith?"

"I-I think not," she confesses. "I I don't remember his name in the Academy catalogue-"

"The Royal Academy !" cries the Laird, with scorn. Laird, with scorn. "No, no! Ye need not expect that. The English Academy is afraid of the Scotchmen: their pictures are too strong: you do not put

good honest whiskey beside small beer. I say the English Academy is afraid of the Scotch school-"

But flesh and blood can stand this no longer we shall not have Mary Avon trampled upon.

"Look here, Denny-mains: we always thought there was a Scotchman or two in the Royal Academy itself and quite capable of holding their own there, too. Why, the President of the Academy is a Scotchman ! And as for the Academy exhibition, the very walls are smothered with Scotch hills, Scotch spates, Scotch peasants, to say nothing of the thousand herring-smacks of Tarbert."

"I tell ye they are afraid of Tom Galbraith; they will not exhibit one of his pictures," says the Laird, stubbornly; and here the discussion is closed; for Master Fred tinkles his bell below, and we have to go down for luncheon. It was most unfair of the wind to take advantage of our absence, and to sneak off, leaving us in a dead calm. It was all very well, when we came on deck again, to watch the terns darting about in their swallow-like fashion, and swooping down to seize a fish; and the strings of sea-pyots whirring by, with their scarlet beaks and legs; and the sudden shimmer and hissing of a part of the blue plain, where a shoal of mackerel had come to the surface; but where were we, now in the open Atlantic, to pass the night? We relinquished the doubling of the Ross of Mull; we should have been content-more than content, for certain reasons*-to have put into Carsaig; we were beginning even to have ignominious thoughts of Loch Buy. And yet we let the golden evening draw on with comparative resignation; and we watched the color gathering in the west, and the Atlantic taking darker hues, and a ruddy tinge beginning to tell on the seamed ridges of Garveloch and the isle of Saints. When the wind sprung up again -it had backed to due west, and we had to beat against it with a series of long tacks, that took us down within sight of

Islay and back to Mull apparently all for nothing-we were deeply engaged in prophesying all manner of things to be achieved by one Angus Sutherland, an old friend of ours, though yet a young man enough.

"Just fancy, sir," says our hostess to the Laird-the Laird, by the way, does not seem so enthusiastic as the rest of us, when he hears that this hero of modern days is about to join our party. "What he has done beats all that I ever heard about Scotch University students; and you know what some of them have done in the face of difficulties. His father is a minister in some small place in Banffshire; perhaps he has 200l. a year at the outside. This son of his has not cost him a farthing, for either his maintenance or his education, since he was fourteen; he took bursaries, scholarships, I don't know what, when he was a mere lad; supported himself and travelled all over Europe-but I think it was at Leipsic and at Vienna he studied longest; and the papers he has written the lectures

and the correspondence with all the great scientific people-when they made him a Fellow, all he said was, I wish my mother was alive.'

This was rather an incoherent and jumbled account of a young man's

career.

A Fellow of what?" says the Laird. "A Fellow of the Royal Society! They made him a Fellow of the Royal Society last year! And he is only seven-and-twenty! I do believe he was not over one-and-twenty when he took his degree at Edinburgh. And thenand then-there is really nothing that he doesn't know is there, Mary?'

This sudden appeal causes Mary Avon to flush slightly; but she says demurely, looking down:

"Of course I don't know any thing that he doesn't know."

"Hm!" says the Laird, who does not seem over pleased. "I have observed that young men who are too brilliant at the first, seldom come to much afterward. Has he gained any thing substantial? Has he a good practice? Does he keep his carriage yet?"

"No, no!" says our hostess, with a fine contempt for such things. "He has a higher ambition than that. His