"Oh, doubtless, doubtless," says this amiable lady, who has had some experience in match-making herself; "but I have generally found that marriages that would be in every way suitable and pleasing to friends, and obviously desirable, are precisely the marriages that never come off. Young people, when they are flung at each other’s heads, to use the common phrase, never will be sensible and please their relatives. Now if you were to bring your nephew here, do you think Mary would fall in love with him because she ought? More likely you would find that, out of pure contrariety, she would fall in love with Angus Sutherland, who cannot afford to marry, and whose head is filled with other things." "I am not sure, I am not sure," said the Laird, musingly. "Howard is a good-looking young fellow, and a capital lad, too. I am not so sure." "And then, you know," said the other shyly, for she will not plainly say anything to Mary’s disparagement, "young men have different tastes in their choice of a wife. He might not have the high opinion of her that you have." At this the Laird gave a look of surprise—even of resentment. "Then I’ll tell ye what it is, ma’am," said he, almost angrily; "if my nephew had the chance of marrying such a girl, and did not do so, I should consider him—I should consider him _a fool_, and say so." And then he added, sharply— "And do ye think I would let Denny-mains pass into the hands of _a fool_?" Now this kind lady had had no intention of rousing the wrath of the Laird in this manner; and she instantly set about pacifying him. And the Laird was easily pacified. In a minute or two he was laughing good-naturedly at himself for getting into a passion; he said it would not do for one at his time of life to try to play the part of the stern father as they played that in theatre pieces—there was to be no forcing. "But he’s a good lad, ma’am, a good lad," said he, rising as his hostess rose; and he added, significantly, "he is no fool, I assure ye, ma’am; he has plenty of common sense." When we get up on deck again, we find that the _White Dove_ is gently gliding out of the lonely Loch Scresorst, with its solitary house among the trees, and its crofters’ huts at the base of the sombre hills. And as the light cool breeze—gratefully cool after the blazing heat of the last day or two—carries us away northward, we see more and more of the awful solitudes of Haleval and Haskeval, that are still thunderous and dark under the hazy sky. Above the great shoulders, and under the purple peaks, we see the far-reaching corries opening up, with here and there a white waterfall just visible in the hollows. There is a sense of escape as we draw away from that overshadowing gloom.