“And when I think,” said the General softly, more closely pressing the young fellow’s arm, “that there might be no song now at all but for your readiness with an oar, I’m bound to make a tryst of it: say Tuesday.” “Certainly!” said Young Islay. “About my readiness with an oar, now, that was less skill than a boy’s luck. I can tell you I was pretty frightened when I baled--good heavens, how long ago I--the water from the punt, and felt the storm would smother me!” He was flushing to speak of a thing so much to his credit, and sought relief from his feelings by a random remark to the Paymaster’s boy. “You mind?” said he, with a laughing look at Gilian, who wished now that he were in the more comfortable atmosphere of the Paymaster’s parlour for he was lamentably outside the interests of this group. “You mind?” he pressed again, as if the only victim of that storm and stranding could ever forget! “I remember very well,” said Gilian in an Anglified accent that renewed all Miss Mary’s apprehension, for it showed an artificial mood. “I came out of that with small credit,” he went on, sparing himself nothing. “I suppose I would have risked my life half a dozen times over to be of any service; what was wanting was the sense to know what I should do. There you had the advantage of me. And did you really bail the boat with your bonnet?” “Faith I did!” said Young Islay, laughing. “I knew it,” said Gilian. “I knew your feelings and your acts as well as if it had been myself that had been there. I wish my comprehension of the act to be done was as ready as my imagination. I wish--” A shyness throttled the words in his mouth when he found all the company looking upon him, all amused or a little pitiful except the dominie, whose face had a kindly respect and curiosity, and Miss Mary, who was looking wistfully in his eyes. “There are two worlds about us,” said Brooks; “the manifest, that is as plain as a horn-book from A to Ampersand; the other, that is in the mind of man, no iota less real, but we are few that venture into it further than the lintel of the door.” And he had about his eyes an almost fatherly fondness for Gilian, who felt that in the words were some justification for him, the dreamer. The street was emptying, one by one the people had dispersed. Young Islay’s group broke up, and went their several ways. The Paymaster and Miss Mary and Gilian went in to dinner. “What’s the matter with you, my dear?” whispered Miss Mary at the turn of the stair when her brother had gone within. “Matter?” said Gilian, surprised at her discovery. “Nothing that I know of. What makes you think there is anything the matter with me?” She stopped him at the stair-head, and here in the dusk of it she was again the young companion. “Gilian, Gilian,” said she, with stress in her whisper and a great affection in the face of her. “Do you think I can be deceived? You are ill; or something troubles you. What were you eating?”