"Oh, I hope you will not," she blurts out quite inadvertently; and thereafter there is a deep blush on her face. "I should enjoy it immensely, I know," says he, wholly ignorant of her embarrassment, because he is keeping an eye on the sails. "I believe I should have more pleasure in life that way than any other——" "But you do not live for your own pleasure," says she hastily, perhaps to cover her confusion. "I have no one else to live for, any way," says he, with a laugh; and then he corrected himself. "Oh, yes, I have. My father is a sad heretic. He has fallen away from the standards of his faith; he has set up idols—the diplomas and medals I have got from time to time. He has them all arranged in his study, and I have heard that he positively sits down before them and worships them. When I sent him the medal from Vienna—it was only bronze—he returned to me his Greek Testament, that he had interleaved and annotated when he was a student; I believe it was his greatest possession." "And you would give up all that he expects from you to go away and be a doctor on board a ship!" says Mary Avon, with some proud emphasis. "That would not be my ambition if I were a man, and—and—if I had—if——" Well, she could not quite say to Brose’s face what she thought of his powers and prospects; so she suddenly broke away and said— "Yes; you would go and do that for your own amusement? And what would the amusement be? Do you think they would let the doctor interfere with the sailing of the ship?" "Well," said he, laughing, "that is a practical objection. I don’t suppose the captain of a man-of-war or even of a merchant vessel would be as accommodating as your John of Skye. Captain John has his compensation when he is relieved; he can go forward, and light his pipe." "Well, I think for _your father’s sake_," says Miss Avon, with decision, "you had better put that idea out of your head, once and for all." Now blow, breezes, blow! What is the great headland that appears, striking out into the wide Atlantic? _Ahead she goes! the land she knows!_ _Behold! the snowy shores of Canna!_ _Ho, ro, clansmen!_ _A long, strong pull together,_ _Ho, ro, clansmen!_ "Tom Galbraith," the Laird is saying solemnly to his hostess, "has assured me that Rum is the most picturesque island on the whole of the western coast of Scotland. That is his deleeberate opinion. And indeed I would not go so far as to say he was wrong. Arran! They talk about Arran! Just look at those splendid mountains coming sheer down to the sea; and the light of the sun on them! Eh me, what a sunset there will be this night!"