There is a fine bustle of preparation next morning—for the gig is waiting by the side of the yacht; and Dr. Sutherland is carefully getting our artist’s materials into the stern; and the Laird is busy with shawls and waterproofs; and Master Fred brings along the luncheon-basket. Our Admiral-in-chief prefers to stay on board; she has letters to write; there are enough of us to go and be tossed on the Atlantic swell off the great caves of Canna. And as the men strike their oars in the water and we wave a last adieu, the Laird catches a glimpse of our larder at the stern of the yacht. Alas! there is but one remaining piece of fresh meat hanging there, under the white canvas. "It reminds me," says he, beginning to laugh already, "of a good one that Tom Galbraith told me—a real good one that was. Tom had a little bit yacht that his man and himself sailed when he was painting, ye know; and one day they got into a bay where Duncan—that was the man’s name—had some friends ashore. Tom left him in charge of the yacht; and—and—ha! ha! ha!—there was a leg of mutton hanging at the stern. Well, Tom was rowed ashore; and painted all day; and came back to the yacht in the afternoon. _There was no leg of mutton_! ’Duncan,’ says he, ’where is the leg of mutton?’ Duncan pretended to be vastly surprised. ’Iss it away?’ says he. ’Away?’ says Tom. ’Don’t you see it is away? I want to know who took it!’ Duncan looked all round him—at the sea and the sky—and then says he—then says he, ’Maybe it wass a dog!’—ha! ha! hee! hee! hee!—’maybe it wass a dog,’ says he; and they were half a mile from the shore! I never see the canvas at the stern of a yacht without thinking o’ Tom Galbraith and the leg of mutton;" and here the Laird laughed long and loud again. "I have heard you speak once or twice about Tom Galbraith," remarked our young Doctor, without meaning the least sarcasm; "he is an artist, I suppose?" The Laird stopped laughing. There was a look of indignant wonder—approaching to horror—on his face. But when he proceeded, with some dignity and even resentment, to explain to this ignorant person the immense importance of the school that Tom Galbraith had been chiefly instrumental in forming; and the high qualities of that artist’s personal work; and how the members of the Royal Academy shook in their shoes at the mere mention of Tom Galbraith’s name, he became more pacified; for Angus Sutherland listened with great respect, and even promised to look out for Mr. Galbraith’s work if he passed through Edinburgh on his way to the south.