understand that I must on no account pay further attention to his daughter, and that my visits to his house must cease. He reproached me with lack of honour in taking advantage of his hospitality to further my own interests and clandestinely win the affection of your aunt Margaret. I repudiated this charge, perhaps somewhat warmly, informed him that if I had broken any of the accepted social laws in the matter, I had done so in ignorance, and assured him I loved his daughter, and that nothing short of her renunciation would deter me from some day making her my wife. He lost his temper, and bluntly asked me if, for a moment, I, a prospectless student and son of a provincial merchant, considered myself worthy of a Kennedy of Knockshaw; whereupon I told him that there were Griersons in Lag, as wardens of the Border Marches, when the Kennedys were sitting in farmyard barns making spoons out of ram-horns. The old reiver blood coursed warmly through my veins, and I faced him without fear. This was the last straw. He raised his cane to strike me; but, noting my air of defiance, he immediately lowered it, and pointed to the door. I bowed in silence, then walked slowly out, and I never entered the house again. 'The days which followed that interview were perhaps the most miserable I ever spent. I had had no opportunity of seeing your aunt; and though I knew she loved me, and that no mercenary considerations would sway her, still there was the uncertainty of it all, under altered circumstances, and the possibility of her being dominated by her father's masterful will. At last, after weary weeks of waiting, of alternate spells of hope and despair, I received a letter from her, written from a lonely island in the Pentland Firth, and letting me know that she had been sent thither by her father on a visit to her uncle, who at that time was proprietor of the island of Stroma. She assured me of her unfaltering love, told me that nothing on earth would shake her resolve, and that, notwithstanding her father's threats, she would join me sooner or later in a haven of rest. She would take my love for granted, and asked me not to write, as my letters would be intercepted. With this ray of hope I had to be content. She wrote to me at intervals; but, as letter followed letter, each became more despondent and despairing, and at last she informed me that it was evident she would not be allowed to return until she promised not to see or correspond with me again. Then came a little, short note pleading for an interview. "It is a long journey, I know," she wrote; "but I dearly--oh, so dearly!--wish to see you again. Your presence will cheer me and strengthen me to bear whatever the future may hold. On Wednesday next my uncle goes to Kirkwall, and on that afternoon I will walk down to a little sheltered creek called Corravoe. It is the nearest point to the mainland, and only a mile or two from Huna. Matthew Howat has a good boat. When you reach Huna ask for Matthew.