"Canna?" says Dr. Sutherland, to his interlocutor, who seems very anxious to be instructed. "Oh, I don’t know. _Canna_ in Gaelic is simply a can; but then _Cana_ is a whale; and the island in the distance looks long and flat on the water. Or it may be from _canach_—that is, the moss-cotton; or from _cannach_—that is, the sweet-gale. You see, Miss Avon, ignorant people have an ample choice." Blow! breezes blow! as the yellow light of the afternoon shines over the broad Atlantic. Here are the eastern shores of Canna, high and rugged, and dark with caves; and there the western shores of Rum, the mighty mountains aglow in the evening light. And this remote and solitary little bay, with its green headlands, and its awkward rocks at the mouth, and the one house presiding over it amongst that shining wilderness of shrubs and flowers? Here is fair shelter for the night. After dinner, in the lambent twilight, we set out with the gig; and there was much preparation of elaborate contrivances for the entrapping of fish. But the Laird’s occult and intricate tackle—the spinning minnows, and spoons, and india-rubber sand-eels—proved no competitor for the couple of big white flies that Angus Sutherland had busked. And of course Mary Avon had that rod; and when some huge lithe dragged the end of the rod fairly under water, and when she cried aloud, "Oh! oh! I can’t hold it; he’ll break the rod!" then arose our Doctor’s word of command:— "Haul him in! Shove out the butt! No scientific playing with a lithe! Well done!—well done!—a five-pounder I’ll bet ten farthings!" It was not scientific fishing; but we got big fish—which is of more importance in the eyes of Master Fred. And then, as the night fell, we set out again for the yacht; and the Doctor pulled stroke; and he sang some more verses of the _biorlinn_ song as the blades dashed fire into the rushing sea:— _Proudly o’er the waves we’ll bound her,_ _As the staghound bounds the heather!_ _Ho, ro, clansmen!_ _A long, strong pull together,_ _Ho, ro, clansmen!_ _Through the eddying tide we’ll guide her,_ _Round each isle and breezy headland,_ _Ho, ro, clansmen!_ _A long, strong pull together,_ _Ho, ro, clansmen!_ The yellow lamp at the bow of the yacht grew larger and larger; the hull of the boat looked black between us and the starlit heavens; as we clambered on board there was a golden glow from the saloon skylight. And then, during the long and happy evening, amid all the whist-playing and other amusements going forward, what about certain timid courtesies and an occasional shy glance between those two young people? Some of us began to think that if the Laird’s scheme was to come to anything, it was high time that Mr. Howard Smith put in an appearance. *CHAPTER IX.* *A WILD STUDIO.*