"Yes; it is all right. I've put him in my bag. You will appreciate him better in his table guise. I'll take him back as a peace-offering to Mrs McNab, for her own evening meal. We have already had our share at the pic--" Suddenly his hands fell to his sides, he straightened himself, and turned his eyes upon her, filled with puzzle and dismay. "The pic--" "--Nic!" concluded Margot faintly. Rosy red were her cheeks; a weight as of lead pressed on her eyelids, dragging them down, down, beneath his gaze. "I--I--_forgot_! We were to have gone to find them! Do you suppose they are--hiding still?" He laughed at that, though in somewhat discomfited fashion. "Rather not! Given us up long ago. It must be getting on for an hour. I can't think how I came to forget--" Margot glanced at him shyly beneath her curling lashes. "It was the fish! A fisherman can't be expected to remember anything when he is landing a trout!" she suggested soothingly. Nevertheless she remembered with a thrill of joy that his forgetfulness had dated back to a time when there had been no fish in prospect. "Do you suppose they have gone home?" "We will go and see. From that mound over there we can overlook the path to the inn. Perhaps we had better keep a little in the background! It would be as well that they should not see us, if they happened to look up--" If it were possible to feel a degree hotter, Margot felt it at that moment, as she followed George Elgood up the little hillock to the right, and, pausing just short of the top, peered stealthily around. A simultaneous exclamation broke from both lips; simultaneously they drew back, and crouched on their knees to peer over the heather. There they went!--straggling in a row in the direction of the inn, the party of revellers who had been so basely deserted. First, the clergyman, with his hands clasped behind his back, his head bent in thought; a pensive reveller, this, already beginning to repent a heavy, indigestible meal; next, Mrs Macalister, holding her skirts in characteristic fashion well up in front and sweeping the ground behind; a pace or two in the rear, her spouse, showing depression and weariness in every line of his body. Yet farther along the two young men carrying the empty hampers; last of all, at quite a little distance from the rest, the figure of the Chieftain stepping out with a tread even more conspicuously jaunty than usual, his hands thrust deep into his pockets, his head turned from side to side, as if curiously scanning the hillsides.