And still the squally easterly wind bears her bravely onward, the puffs darkening the water as they pass us and strike the rushing seas. Is that a shadow of Colonsay on the far southern horizon? The lighthouse people here have gone to bed; there is not a single figure along the yellow-white walls. Look at the clouds of gulls on the rocks, resting after their morning meal. By this time the deer have retreated into the high slopes above Craignure; there is a white foam breaking along the bay of Innismore. And still the _White Dove_ spins along, with foam-diamonds glittering in the sunlight at her bows; and we hear the calling of the sea-swallows, and the throbbing of a steamer somewhere in among the shadows of Loch Aline. Surely now we are out of the reign of calms; the great boom strains at the sheets; there is a whirl of blue waters; the _White Dove_ has spread her wings at last. "Ay, ay," says John of Skye, who has relieved Miss Avon at the helm; "it is a great peety." "Why, John?" says she, with some surprise; is he vexed that we should be sailing well on this fine sailing day? "It iss a great peety that Mr. Sutherland not here," said John, "and he wass know so much about a yacht, and day after day not a breeze at ahl. There iss not many chentlemen will know so much about a yacht as Mr. Sutherland." Miss Avon did not answer, though her face seemed conscious in its colour. She was deeply engaged in a novel. "Oh, that is the Mr. Sutherland who has been with you," said Howard Smith to his hostess, in a cheerful way. "A doctor, I think you said?" At this Miss Avon looked up quickly from her book. "I should have thought," said she with a certain dignity of manner, "that most people had heard of Dr. Angus Sutherland." "Oh, yes, no doubt," said he, in the most good-natured fashion. "I know about him myself—it must be the same man. A nephew of Lord Foyers, isn’t he? I met some friends of his at a house last winter; they had his book with them—the book about tiger-hunting in Nepaul, don’t you know?—very interesting indeed it was, uncommonly interesting. I read it right through one night when everybody else was in bed——" "Why, that is Captain Sutherland’s book," said his hostess, with just a trace of annoyance. "They are not even related. How can you imagine that Angus Sutherland would write a book about tiger-hunting?—he is one of the most distinguished men of science in England." "Oh, indeed," says the young man, with the most imperturbable good humour. "Oh, yes, I am sure I have heard of him—the Geographical Society, or something like that; really those evenings are most amusing. The women are awfully bored, and yet they do keep their eyes open somehow. But about those Indian fellows; it was only last winter that I heard how the —— —— manages to make those enormous bags, all to his own gun, that you see in the papers. Haven’t you noticed them?"