Not a sound but the faint lapping of the water on the boat fell upon their ears. The hills were by this time in darkness, and the stars were beginning to glimmer in the twilight sky. Beyond the western hills the sky was still bright, with a glow that seemed less that of the sunken sun, than some mysterious halo of the northern night. A faint phosphorescence lingered about the drops of sea-water upon the oars. Nothing but the distant lights in the cottage windows seemed to be in any way connected with the commonplace, everyday world. ‘Hadn’t we better go back? It is really getting dark,’ said Laura, as gently as before; and Alec obediently dipped his oars and turned the bow of the boat towards Glendhu. All his life long Alec remembered that silent row in the dim, unearthly twilight. There was no need for words. They were sitting, as it were, ‘on the shores of old romance,’ and tasting the dew of fairyland. That hidden land was for this short hour revealed to them; they were breathing the enchanted air. It was almost dark when Alec shipped his oars and drew the boat along the rocks outside the garden-wall. ‘How dreadfully late it is! I hope they have not come back,’ said Laura, as she rose to go ashore. Alec took her hand, so small and white, with the tiny blue veins crossing it, in his own rough brown fingers, and when he had helped the girl ashore he stooped and kissed it. A moment afterwards, a soft ‘good-night’ from the garden assured him that the act of homage had not been taken amiss. If he had lingered a minute or two longer he would have heard Miss Lindsay’s voice calling out in some anxiety, and Laura Mowbray’s silvery accents replying: ‘Yes; here I am, Miss Lindsay--it is so much cooler out of doors. My headache is almost quite gone, thank you; the cool sea-breeze has driven it away. How did you enjoy your party? How I wish I could have gone with you!’ But before Laura reached the house, Alec was once more far out in the loch. He wished to be alone, to indulge the sweet intoxication which was burning in his veins. When at last he returned to his little room he found a letter awaiting him which had been sent on from home. The address was in an unfamiliar handwriting, and breaking the seal he read as follows: ‘CAEN LODGE, HIGHGATE, N., ‘_July 10, 187-_. ‘MY DEAR LINDSAY, ‘You will be surprised to hear that you may see me the day after this reaches you. I want to see how your beautiful river scenery looks in this glorious summer weather. If it is not convenient for me to stay at the farm, I can easily find quarters elsewhere. ‘Ever yours, ‘HUBERT BLAKE.’