They did so. The gardener took the horses, and they went up to the study. Lenorme was not there, and everything was just as when Malcolm was last in the room. Florimel was much disappointed, but Malcolm talked to her about the portrait, and did all he could to bring back vivid the memory of her father. At length with a little sigh she made a movement to go. “Has your ladyship ever seen the river from the next room?” said Malcolm, and, as he spoke, threw open the door of communication, near which they stood. Florimel, who was always ready to _see_, walked straight into the drawing-room, and went to a window. “There is that yacht lying there still!” remarked Malcolm. “Does she not remind you of the Psyche, my lady?” “Every boat does that,” answered his mistress. “I dream about her. But I couldn’t tell her from many another.” “People used to boats, my lady, learn to know them like the faces of their friends.--What a day for a sail!” “Do you suppose that one is for hire?” said Florimel. “We can ask,” replied Malcolm; and with that went to another window, raised the sash, put his head out, and whistled. Over tumbled Davy into the dinghy at the Psyche’s stern, unloosed the painter, and was rowing for the shore ere the minute was out. “Why, they’re answering your whistle already!” said Florimel. “A whistle goes farther, and perhaps is more imperative than any other call,” returned Malcolm evasively. “Will your ladyship come down and hear what they say?” A wave from the slow-silting lagoon of her girlhood came washing over the sands between, and Florimel flew merrily down the stair and across hall and garden and road to the river-bank, where was a little wooden stage or landing place, with a few steps, at which the dinghy was just arriving. “Will you take us on board and show us your boat?” said Malcolm. “Ay, ay, sir,” answered Davy. Without a moment’s hesitation, Florimel took Malcolm’s offered hand, and stepped into the boat. Malcolm took the oars, and shot the little tub across the river. When they got alongside the cutter, Travers reached down both his hands for hers, and Malcolm held one of his for her foot, and Florimel sprang on deck. “Young woman on board, Davy?” whispered Malcolm. “Ay, ay, sir--doon i’ the fore,” answered Davy, and Malcolm stood by his mistress. “She _is_ like the Psyche,” said Florimel, turning to him, “only the mast is not so tall.” “Her topmast is struck, you see my lady--to make sure of her passing clear under the bridges.” “Ask them if we couldn’t go down the river a little way,” said Florimel. “I should so like to see the houses from it!” Malcolm conferred a moment with Travers and returned. “They are quite willing, my lady,” he said. “What fun!” cried Florimel, her girlish spirit all at the surface. “How I should like to run away from horrid London altogether, and never hear of it again!--Dear old Lossie House! and the boats! and the fishermen!” she added meditatively.