"It is English," says the Laird, with decision. "Surely it must be more sensible for an English person to write English. Ah never use a French word maself." But what is the English that we hear now—called out on deck by the voice of John of Skye? "Eachan, slack the lee topping-lift! Ay, and the tackle, too. That’ll do, boys. Down with your main-tack, now!" "Why," exclaims our sovereign mistress, who knows something of nautical matters, "we must have started!" Then there is a tumbling up the companion-way; and lo! the land is slowly leaving us; and there is a lapping of the blue water along the side of the boat; and the white sails of the _White Dove_ are filled with this gentle breeze. Deck-stools are arranged; books and field-glasses and what not scattered about; Mary Avon is helped on deck, and ensconced in a snug little camp-chair. The days of our summer idleness have begun. And as yet these are but familiar scenes that steal slowly by—the long green island of Lismore—_Lios-mor_, the Great Garden; the dark ruins of Duart, sombre as if the shadow of nameless tragedies rested on the crumbling walls; Loch Don, with its sea-bird-haunted shallows, and Loch Speliv leading up to the awful solitudes of Glen More; then, stretching far into the wreathing clouds, the long rampart of precipices, rugged and barren and lonely, that form the eastern wall of Mull. There is no monotony on this beautiful summer morning; the scene changes every moment, as the light breeze bears us away to the south. For there is the Sheep Island; and Garveloch—which is the rough island; and Eilean-na naomha—which is the island of the Saints. But what are these to the small transparent cloud resting on the horizon?—smaller than any man’s hand. The day is still; and the seas are smooth: cannot we hear the mermaiden singing on the far shores of Colonsay? "Colonsay!" exclaims the Laird, seizing a field-glass. "Dear me! Is that Colonsay? And they telled me that Tom Galbraith was going there this very year." The piece of news fails to startle us altogether; though we have heard the Laird speak of Mr. Galbraith before. "Ay," says he, "the world will know something o’ Colonsay when Tom Galbraith gets there." "Whom did you say?" Miss Avon asks. "Why, Galbraith!" says he. "Tom Galbraith!" The Laird stares in amazement. Is it possible she has not heard of Tom Galbraith? And she herself an artist; and coming direct from Edinburgh, where she has been living for two whole months! "Gracious me!" says the Laird. "Ye do not say ye have never heard of Galbraith—he’s an Academeecian!—a Scottish Academeecian!" "Oh, yes; no doubt," she says, rather bewildered. "There is no one living has had such an influence on our Scotch school of painters as Galbraith—a man of great abeelity—a man of great and uncommon abeelity—he is one of the most famous landscape painters of our day——" "I scarcely met any one in Edinburgh," she pleads.