He had scarcely spoken when he was startled by an apparition. Right opposite to him—not more than twenty yards off—a black thing appeared on the water—with a glistening smooth head, and large, soft eyes. Then another. We dared not move. We waited for the whistle of the rifle-bullet. The next instant the first seal caught sight of the Laird; raised its head for an instant at least six inches higher; then silently plunged along with its companion. They were gone, at all events. The Youth came marching along the rocks, his rifle over his shoulder. "Why didn’t you fire?" his uncle said, almost angrily. "I thought they were coming nearer," said he. "I was just about to fire when they dived. Mind, it isn’t very easy to get on to a thing that is bobbing about like that, with a rifle. I propose we have luncheon, now, until the tide ebbs a bit; then there may be a chance of catching one lying on the rocks. That is the proper time for getting a shot at a seal." We had luncheon: there was no difficulty about securing that. But as for getting at the seals—whether we crawled over the rocks, or lay in hiding, or allowed the boat to drift towards some island, on the chance of one of them rising in our neighbourhood—it was no use at all. There were plenty of seals about: a snap shot now and again served to break the monotony of the day; but that present tor Mary Avon seemed as remote as ever. And when one is determined on shooting a seal, one is not likely to waste one’s attention, and cartridges, on such inferior animals as skarts. The silver-grey day became more golden; there was a touch of warm purple about the shadows of Staffa. "Come," said the Laird at last. "We must go back. It is no use. I have often heard people say that if you miss the first chance at a seal it never gives ye another." "Better luck next time, uncle," said the Youth; but his uncle refused to be comforted. And the first thing he said to Mary Avon when he got back to the yacht was— "We have not got it." "Got what?" said she. "The seal-skin I wanted to have dressed for ye. No, nor the skarts I wanted to have made into a muff or a bag for ye." "Oh," said she, promptly, "I am very glad. I hope you won’t shoot any of those poor things on my account; I should be very sorry indeed." The Laird took this as one of the familiar protestations on the part of women, who wouldn’t for the world have poor things shot, but who don’t object to wearing any amount of furs and feathers, to say nothing of having innocent sheep sheared and harmless silkworms robbed in order to deck themselves out. She should have that dressed seal-skin, and that muff of skarts’ breasts, all the same.