But as the day wore on there was no sign of either yacht or lugger coming away from Heimra; the grey and squally sea remained empty; indeed, towards the afternoon, the wind freshened up into something like half a gale, and it grew to be a matter of certainty that Donald Ross would not seek to communicate with the shore. Mary was not disheartened. On the contrary, her face wore the same happy look—that Frank Meredyth could not quite understand. He had become observant and thoughtful: not about grouse. The following morning broke with a much more cheerful aspect. "Käthchen," said Mary, before they went down to breakfast together, "don’t you think that any time Mr. Ross comes across to the mainland he might as well walk along here for lunch, instead of going to the inn? Talking to us should interest him as much as talking to that soft-headed John, the policeman, or to the sulky Peter Grant, or even to the sing-song Minister. And it would be very pleasant for us, too, with the gentlemen away on the moor all day." But again the slow hours of the day passed; and, whatever may have been her secret hopes, her anxious fears, or even, at times, her disposition to be proudly resentful, that width of rough blue water gave no answer to her surreptitiously questioning gaze. There was a fresh westerly breeze blowing; either the smart little cutter or the more cumbrous lugger could have made an easy and rapid passage. However, neither brown sail nor white sail appeared outside the distant headland; and so the afternoon drew on towards evening; and here were the sportsmen come down from the hill, and the dressing-bell about to sound. After dinner, when the two young ladies were alone together, Mary said—with a curious affectation of indifference— "I did not ask for an answer, Käthchen. Oh, certainly not. There was no answer needed—but still—it seems to me he might have acknowledged the receipt of my note. Of course I am rather anxious to know on what terms we are—naturally—and—and naturally I should like to know whether he absolves me——" She was silent for a moment. When she spoke again she was more honest: there was something of a proud, hurt feeling in her tone. "I do think he might have sent me a message. Don’t you, Käthchen? Either yesterday morning or to-day—the whole of to-day has been fine weather. I went out of my way to make the first overtures—after—after what happened. I held out the olive-branch. It seems to me that common courtesy would suggest some little acknowledgment: one is not used to being treated in this way——" "Perhaps to-morrow——" suggested Käthchen, vaguely. "Oh, if he is not in a hurry, neither am I," said she, with a sudden air of haughty unconcern; and she would have no more said.