"Oh, mem, do not be afraid," cried Barbara, even amidst her own wild alarm. "There’s a boat going out—oh, yes, they are pulling hard—they will be at the end of the quay in a moment or two—and the people are all looking over—oh, yes, yes, mem, if anyone is in the water, they have found him—and—and the boat—now the boat has gone by the end of the quay, and I am not seeing it any more—yes, yes, it is there now—and they are coming this way, mem—they will be coming into the slip—oh, yes—I am sure they have got the one that was in the water—and Big Archie in the stern of the boat, mem—and the people now running to meet them at the slip—now it is Big Archie that is lifting the one out of the stern of the boat——" Suddenly Barbara uttered a plaintive cry, "Oh, _Dyeea_, it is the young master himself!" "What do you say? Mr. Ross? What has happened, Barbara?" She struggled to her feet, pale and shuddering; and Barbara was at her side in an instant. "Quick, Barbara!—come with me!—help me!—I must go down to the slip—your arm, Barbara—help me!—quick quick——" And so, with trembling limbs and dazed eyes—dazed by the fear of some dread unknown thing—she managed to cross the hall and get down the steps and across the road. It was but a short distance to the slip. The little crowd made way on her approach: and there, lying extended on the stone, she beheld the senseless body of her lover, while the big fisherman, kneeling, was making such examination as was possible. Big Archie rose at once. "Oh, he will be ahl right directly, mem—I’m sure of it!—he has been struck on the back of the head—mebbe by the keel of the steamer——" She paid no heed to him—no, nor to any who were standing there. She threw herself on her knees beside the prostrate figure; with her warm hands she pushed back the coal-black tangled hair; she bent down close to him; she spoke to him, almost in a whisper—but with a passionate tenderness that might have thrilled the dead. "Donald!—speak to me!—tell me I have not killed you!—I sent you away—yes—but my heart has cried for you to come back—speak to me!—speak to me!—Donald!—do you not hear me?—Donald——" Was it the touch of her warm, trembling fingers about his face, or was it the low-breathing, piteous cry of her voice that seemed to stir his pulses and call him slowly back to life? The eyelids opened wearily—to find this wonderful vision hanging over him, and they seemed to rest there and understand. "_Mo-lua!_"[#] he murmured. [#] _Mo-luaidh_—My dearest one, or my most-prized one. She did not know the meaning of the phrase; but the look in his eyes was enough. She held his hand as they carried him up to the house. * * * * *