“But I am not saying he's POOR, ma'am, no,” replied the stranger, with native caution. “What wi' tips and gratooities and percentages on the teekets, it's a bit of money he'll be having in the bank noo.” The prophecy of Donald McHulish as to the weather came true. The next morning was bright and sunny, and the boat to Kelpie Island--a large yawl--duly received its complement of passengers and provision hampers. The ladies had apparently become more tolerant of their fellow pleasure-seekers, and it appeared that Miss Elsie had even overcome her hilarity at the discovery of what “might have been” a relative in the person of the porter Donald. “I had a long talk with him before breakfast this morning,” she said gayly, “and I know all about him. It appears that there are hundreds of him--all McHulishes--all along the coast and elsewhere--only none of them ever lived ON the island, and don't want to. But he looks more like a 'laird' and a chief than Malcolm, and if it comes to choosing a head of the family, remember, maw, I shall vote solid for him.” “How can you go on so, Elsie?” said Mrs. Kirkby, with languid protest. “Only I trust you didn't say anything to him of the syndicate. And, thank Heaven! the property isn't here.” “No; the waiter tells me all the lovely things we had for breakfast came from miles away. And they don't seem to have ever raised anything on the island, from its looks. Think of having to row three miles for the morning's milk!” There was certainly very little appearance of vegetation on the sterile crags that soon began to lift themselves above the steely waves ahead. A few scraggy trees and bushes, which twisted and writhed like vines around the square tower and crumbling walls of an irregular but angular building, looked in their brown shadows like part of the debris. “It's just like a burnt-down bone-boiling factory,” said Miss Elsie critically; “and I shouldn't wonder if that really was old McHulish's business. They couldn't have it on the mainland for its being a nuisance.”