"Ay, it’s true. Mind ye, I am a Conservative myself; I will have nothing to do with Radicals and their Republics; no, no, but a wise Conservative knows how to march with the age. Take my own poseetion: for example, as soon as I saw that the steam fire-engine was a necessity, I withdrew my opposition at once. I am very thankful to you, ma’am, for having given me an opportunity of carefully considering the question. I will never forget our trip round Mull. Dear me! it is warm the day," added the Laird, as he raised his broad felt hat, and wiped his face with his voluminous silk handkerchief. Here come two pedestrians—good-looking young lads of an obviously English type—and faultlessly equipped from head to heel. They look neither to the left nor right; on they go manfully through the dust, the sun scorching their faces; there must be a trifle of heat under these knapsacks. Well, we wish them fine weather and whole heels. It is not the way some of us would like to pass a holiday. For what is this that Miss Avon is singing lightly to herself as she walks carelessly on, occasionally pausing to look in at a shop— _And often have we seamen heard how men are killed or undone,_ _By overturns of carriages, and thieves, and fires in London._ Here she turns aside to caress a small terrier; but the animal, mistaking her intention, barks furiously, and retreats, growling and ferocious, into the shop. Miss Avon is not disturbed. She walks on, and completes her nautical ballad—all for her own benefit— _We’ve heard what risk all landsmen run, from noblemen to tailors,_ _So, Billy, let’s thank Providence that you and I are sailors!_ "What on earth is that, Mary?" her friend behind asks. The girl stops with a surprised look, as if she had scarcely been listening to herself; then she says lightly:— "Oh, don’t you know the sailor’s song—I forget what they call it:— _A strong sou-wester’s blowing, Billy, can’t you hear it roar now,_ _Lord help ’em, how I pities all unhappy folks on shore now._ "You have become a thorough sailor, Miss Avon," says Angus Sutherland, who has overheard the last quotation. "I—I like it better—I am more interested," she says, timidly, "since you were so kind as to show me the working of the ship." "Indeed," says he, "I wish you would take command of her, and order her present captain below. Don’t you see how tired his eyes are becoming? He won’t take his turn of sleep like the others; he has been scarcely off the deck night or day since we left Canna; and I find it is no use remonstrating with him. He is too anxious; and he fancies I am in a hurry to get back; and these continual calms prevent his getting on. Now the whole difficulty would be solved, if you let me go back by the steamer; then you could lie at Portree here for a night or two, and let him have some proper rest."