“Ay, sir, I will come down,” answered the dame, and she immediately descended. “Granny Lindsay, my uncle has convinced me that I ought to return home with him. I am very sorry to leave you, but I must go!” said Gloria, gently. “Ah, well, dearie, I am sorry, too—but of course ’ee must be guided by ’ee gardeen, little lady, and I hope ’ee’ll take no harm. ’Ee clothes are all dry and ready for ’ee, and I’ll wrap ’ee up warm and nice for ’ee little journey,” said the dame. “And now, uncle, you will please to withdraw! You see there is only this one room and we must take turns.” Colonel de Crespigney smiled good-humoredly enough as he left the house to walk up and down in the crisp, cold winter air outside. Dame Lindsay brought the girl’s clothes from the chair over which they had been hanging near the fire. “Granny Lindsay, where has David Lindsay gone?” inquired Gloria, as she arose and began to dress herself. “Down to the shore to look after his boat, I reckon, lovie; or maybe he has crossed to the main to bring a load of brushwood.” “He hurried away as soon as I awoke and you came in.” “Yes, dearie, he did so to give you a chance to get up and dress, I reckon.” “Will he be back before I go?” “I hope so, dearie.” Gloria slowly dressed herself, and then requested that her uncle might be called in. Dame Lindsay, meanwhile, had placed coffee, hot rolls, and broiled ham on the breakfast table, and now she went to the door and summoned Colonel de Crespigney. “I hope you will do us the pleasure to take a cup of coffee this Christmas morning, sir,” said the dame, as she placed a chair at the table for her last visitor. “Thanks, no; I took coffee before I left home this morning,” answered the colonel. But Gloria sat down and drank a little cup with her hostess. Then, not to keep her guardian waiting longer than necessary, she arose, and put on her hat and sack to depart. “Good-by, dear friend,” she said, offering her cheek to the old dame’s kiss. “Good-by. I shall never forget your motherly kindness to me. And please to say good-by for me to David Lindsay, and tell him that I shall hold my life sweeter from this day forth, because he saved it.” With this grateful and gracious message to her preserver, Gloria joined her uncle and left the cottage. Involuntarily her eyes roamed all over the islet, in search of her old playmate; but in vain, for he was nowhere to be seen. “Lean heavily on me, my child. You are pale and trembling,” said De Crespigney, tenderly, as he drew her hand under his arm and slackened his steps to accommodate them to her weary walk. When they reached the shore, Gloria looked around again for some signs of David Lindsay’s presence, but there was none to be seen, not even his little boat; and this was a certain indication that the dame’s conjectures pointed to the truth, and that the young fisherman had crossed to the main.