On Eilean Heimra he bestowed this single farewell glance; but on Lochgarra none. When they got outside into the heavily-running seas he did not turn once to look at the distant bay and its strip of cottages, nor yet at the promontory where the sharp gusts of the gale were already ploughing waves along the tops of the larchwoods surrounding Lochgarra House. The affected cheerfulness with which he had addressed the two sailors on setting forth was gone now; his face was pale and worn; the mouth stern; the eyes clouded and dark. But he had his hands full; for every moment the weather became more threatening. "Calum," he called out, "go below and fetch me up my oil-skins. We are going to catch something pretty soon." And so—amid this wild turmoil of driven skies and black-rolling seas—the _Sirène_ bore away for the south. And meanwhile at yonder big building among the wind-swept larches? All the long and terrible night Mary Stanley had neither slept nor thought of sleeping; she had not even undressed; she had kept walking up and down her room in a fever of agitation; or she had sate at the table, her hands clasped over her forehead, striving to shut out from her memory that dire succession of scenes, those haunting visions that seemed to have been burned into her brain. And if they would not go?—then blindly and stubbornly would she refuse to admit that they lent any air of credibility to this tale that had been told her. Nay, she abased herself; and overwhelmed herself with reproaches; and called herself the meanest of living creatures, in that she could have believed, even for one frantic moment, that base and malignant fabrication. Why, had she not known all along of the deadly animosity that Purdie, for some reason or another, bore towards young Ross and all his family? Had she not herself discovered that previous charges against Donald Ross owned no foundation other than a rancorous and reckless spite? And she had taken the unsupported testimony of one who appeared to be out of his mind with malice and hatred against the man who was her lover, as he and she knew in their secret hearts? In one second of unreasoning impulse she had destroyed all those fair possibilities that lay within her grasp; she had ruined her life; and wounded to the quick the one that was dearest to her in all the world. And well she knew how proud and relentless he was: he had forgiven much, to her and hers; but this he would never forgive. It was more than an insult; it was a betrayal: what would he think of her, even if she could go to him, and make humble confession, and implore his pardon? How could she explain that instant of panic following her first indignant repudiation—then the hapless chance that brought him face to face with her—then the fierce revolt of a maiden soul against contamination—alas! all in a sudden bewilderment of error, that could never be atoned for now. What must he think of her?—she kept