“Master Charlie is very anxious you should come and help him with his Kodak, sir,” said Linklater, respectfully. “He’s just up here at the top, and her ladyship is at the further side of the island, sketching.” “Very well, then, I’ll come,” said Ralph, and he followed his friend up the steep ascent. In a little clearing at the top they found the small boy, who gave a war-whoop of delight as Ralph emerged from the brushwood. “If I hadn’t had such an awful longing for gooseberries, Dugald would never have met you!” he said gleefully. “Auntie is over there making a sketch, she’s hidden right away by the trees, but don’t go to her just yet, do stay and help us lay the things out for lunch, Dugald is going to make a fire and boil some water, he thinks Auntie will like some tea, she’s been having such dreadful headaches the last few days.” Macneillie heard no more, he left Ralph and the child, and Dugald Linklater, and made his way straight through the tangle of shrubs, trees, and bushes, in the direction that Charlie had indicated. There was a gleam of white between the green leaves--it was the sun lighting up the sketching-block on her easel; in another moment he had parted the thickly-growing branches and had seen her once more. She was sitting on a fallen tree--not attempting to sketch, but with her elbows propped on her knees and her face hidden by one of those shapely white hands he had so often kissed; the sun made a dazzling glory of her fair hair; her light grey dress and grey straw hat seemed exactly to harmonise with the green trees and the patches of heather. She had always had that instinct of fitness which makes some women know exactly what to wear, and when to wear it. Macneillie stood for a minute watching intently the down-bent head, his heart throbbing so fast that he felt half-choked. At last, putting force upon himself, he moved forward. His step recalled her from her sad reverie, and starting to her feet with the nervous alarm of one who has lately undergone some great shock, she looked round as though in terror of pursuit. That startled movement, and the momentary expression he had seen in her pale face, strengthened Macneillie as nothing else could have done; he forgot all about himself, realised only that she wanted his protection. “You need not be afraid,” he said, taking her hand in his, “of what use are old friends if not to help you in time of need?” She struggled hard to reply, but her eyes swam with tears, her lips refused to frame a word. “Let us sit down here and talk things over quietly,” said Macneillie; “as I wrote to you just now, Dugald Linklater told us what had passed at Mearn Castle.”