And therewith the Gillie Ciotach went down the steps, fumbling in his pocket for his pipe; while Mary returned to relate the story of this momentous interview to Käthchen—perhaps with some few judicious reservations. For if all that the Gillie Ciotach professed was not quite to be believed, at least it was something that so desperate a dare-devil had the grace to affect being on the side of virtue; and Mary chose to flatter herself that, now he had shown himself in a measure amenable, she would sooner or later complete his conversion—to the general quieting of the country-side. And of course an account of this, her latest conquest, had to be written out forthwith and despatched to Heimra. Indeed, it was remarkable how constant had become the communication between the island and the shore, now that Donald Ross had returned for a few days to his own home. Big Archie’s lugger was continually being requisitioned, to take out a note and wait for an answer; while Coinneach and Calum, when they came to meet the mail, would be intercepted by the swift-footed Barbara, and entrusted with a message. Käthchen was convinced that the replies that came back from Eilean Heimra were kept and secretly pondered over: more than once she had seen Mary thrust a paper into her pocket when someone had suddenly come upon her. And she noticed that when they two were walking along the shore, her companion’s attention would sometimes be so steadily and wistfully fixed on the distant island—which sometimes was dark and misty under trailing clouds of rain, and sometimes shining fair amid a wonder of blue seas and sunlight—that when she was spoken to she would look startled, as if summoned out of a dream. One day there arrived, addressed to Miss Stanley, a wooden box that had the name of a well-known London florist printed on the label. The contents were a mass of flowers, all of them white; and Mary herself saw them taken out and carefully placed in water—for the pale wax-like buds of the tuberoses were hardly yet opened. Then she went to Kate Glendinning. "Käthchen," she said, rather diffidently, "don’t you think it is rather a sad thing, the lonely grave out there?" "Do you mean at Heimra, Mamie?" "Yes. It seems so hard that no one has ever a chance of showing sympathy—either with the dead or living. I have sent for some flowers; do you think we could go out and place them on the grave—without being seen?" Käthchen was silent: it did not appear a very feasible project.