"Macleod. Macleod," said he, "you are a trump. You may go on writing love-letters from now till next Monday afternoon. I suppose we will have a good dinner, too?" "Beauregard is said to have the best _chef_ in London; and I don't suppose they would leave so important a person in Ireland." "You have my gratitude, Macleod--eternal, sincere, unbounded," the major said, seriously. "But it is not I who am asking you to go and massacre a lot of pheasants," said Macleod; and he spoke rather absently, for he was thinking of the probable mood in which he would go down to Weatherill. One of a generous gladness and joy, the outward expression of an eager and secret happiness to be known by none? Or what if there were no red rose at all on her bosom when she advanced to meet him with sad eyes? They went down into Essex next day. Major Stuart was surprised to find that his companion talked not so much about the price of machines for drying saturated crops as about the conjectural cost of living in the various houses they saw from afar, set amidst the leafless trees of November. "You don't think of coming to live in England, do you?" said he. "No--at least, not at present," Macleod said. "Of course; one never knows what may turn up. I don't propose to live at Dare all my life." "Your wife might want to live in England," the major said, coolly. Macleod started and stared. "You have been writing a good many letters of late," said his companion. "And is that all?" said Macleod, answering him in the Gaelic. "You know the proverb--_Tossing the head will not make the boat row_. I am not married yet." The result of this journey was, that they agreed to purchase one of the machines for transference to the rainy regions of Mull; and then they returned to London. This was on Wednesday. Major Stuart considered they had a few days to idle by before the _battue;_ Macleod was only excitedly aware that Thursday and Friday--two short November days--came between him and that decision which he regarded with an anxious joy. The day went by in a sort of dream. A pale fog hung over London: and as he wandered about he saw the tall houses rise faintly blue into the gray mist; and the great coffee-colored river, flushed with recent rains, rolled down between the pale embankments; and the golden-red globe of the sun, occasionally becoming visible through the mottled clouds, sent a ray of fire here and there on some window-pane or lamp.