—she hums to herself as she is busy with this rough sketch of sea and shore. How can she be aware that Angus Sutherland is at this very moment in the companion way, and not daring to stir hand or foot lest he should disturb her? _Friends and foes had our passion thwarted,_ she croons to herself, though, indeed, there is no despair at all in her voice, but a perfect contentment— _But true, tender, and lion-hearted,_ _Lived he on, and from life departed,_ _Macleod, whose rival is breathing none!_ _Dunvegan—oh, Dunvegan!_ She is pleased with the rapidity of her work. She tries to whistle a little bit. Or, perhaps it is only the fresh morning air that has put her in such good spirits? _Yestreen the Queen had four Maries._ What has that got to do with the sketch of the shining grey castle? Among these tags and ends of ballads, the young Doctor at last becomes emboldened to put in an appearance. "Good morning, Miss Avon," says he; "you are busy at work again?" She is not in the least surprised. She has got accustomed to his coming on deck before the others; they have had a good deal of quiet chatting while as yet the Laird was only adjusting his high white collar and satin neckcloth. "It is only a sketch," said she, in a rapid and highly business-like fashion, "but I think I shall be able to sell it. You know most people merely value pictures for their association with things they are interested in themselves. A Yorkshire farmer would rather have a picture of his favourite cob than any Raphael or Titian. And the ordinary English squire: I am sure that you know in his own heart he prefers one of Herring’s farm yard pieces to Leonardo’s _Last Supper_. Well, if some yachting gentleman, who has been in this loch, should see this sketch, he will probably buy it, however bad it is, just because it interests him——" "But you don’t really mean to sell it?" said he. "That depends," said she demurely, "on whether I get any offer for it." "Why," he exclaimed, "the series of pictures you are now making should be an invaluable treasure to you all your life long: a permanent record of a voyage that you seem to enjoy very much. I almost shrink from robbing you of that one of Canna; still, the temptation is too great. And you propose to sell them all?" "What I can sell of them," she says; and then she adds, rather shyly, "You know I could not very well afford to keep them all for myself. I—I have a good many almoners in London; and I devote to them what I can get for my scrawls—that is, I deduct the cost of the frames, and keep the rest for them. It is not a large sum." "Any other woman would spend it in jewellery and dresses," says he bluntly. At this, Miss Mary Avon flushes slightly, and hastily draws his attention to a small boat that is approaching. Dr. Sutherland does not pay any heed to the boat. He is silent for a second or so; and then he says, with an effort to talk in a cheerful and matter-of-fact way—