Only another eager face looking down--another alert animated figure pressing to the very edge--impatient hands thrusting interposing porters and cabmen by--and eyes all a-glow with loving expectation, searching over all the deck for the little party which they have not yet descried. Involuntarily Menie raises her hand, her breath comes quick over her parted lips, and in her heart she calls to him with shy joy. He must have heard the call, surely, by some art magic, though the common air got no note of it, for see how he bends, with that sudden flush upon his face; and Menie meets the welcoming look, the keen gaze of delight and satisfaction, and lays her hand upon her mother’s arm timidly, to point out where Randall Home waits for them; but he does something more than wait--and there is scarcely a possibility of communication with the crowded quay, as these unaccustomed eyes are inclined to fancy, when a quick step rings upon the deck beside them, and he is here. But Menie does not need to blush for her betrothed--though those shy bright eyes of hers, wavering up and down with such quick unsteady glances, seem to light into richer colour every moment the glow upon her cheeks--for Randall is a true son of John Home of Crofthill, inheriting the stately figure, the high-crested head, with its mass of rich curls, the blue, clear, penetrating eyes. And Randall bears these natural honours with a grace of greater refinement, though a perfectly cool spectator might think, perchance, that even the more conscious dignity of the gentleman’s son did not make up for the kindly gleam which takes from the farmer father’s blue eyes all suspicion of coldness. But it is impossible to suspect coldness in Randall’s glance now--his whole face sparkles with the glow of true feeling and genuine joy. The one of them did not think the other beautiful a few days--a few hours--ago, even with all the charm of memory and absence to make them fair--and neither are beautiful, nor near it, to everyday eyes; but with this warm light on them--happy, and true, and pure--they are beautiful to each other now. “Weel, I wouldna say there was mony like him, ’specially amang thae English, after a’,” said Jenny, under her breath. “What do you say, Jenny?” Mrs Laurie, who has already had her share of Randall’s greetings, and been satisfied therewith, thinks it is something about the luggage--which luggage, to her careful eyes, comes quite in the way of Randall Home.