"I!" said she, in great surprise—though she did not meet the look of the elder woman—"I—I—don’t you see yourself that he ought to go back to London? How can he look after that magazine while he is away in the Highlands? And—and—he has so much to look forward to—so much to do—that you should not encourage him in making light of his work." "Making light of his work!" said the other. "I am almost sure that you yourself told him that he deserved and required a long—a very long—holiday." "You did, certainly." "And didn’t you?" The young lady looked rather embarrassed. "When you saw him," said she, with flushed cheeks, "so greatly enjoying the sailing—absorbed in it—and—and gaining health and strength, too—well, of course you naturally wished that he should come back and go away with you again. But it is different on reflection. You should not ask him." "Why, what evil is likely to happen to him through taking another six weeks’ holiday? Is he likely to fall out of the race of life because of a sail in the _White Dove_? And doesn’t he know his own business? He is not a child." "He would do a great deal to please you." "I want him to please himself," said the other; and she added, with a deadly frown gathering on her forehead, "and I won’t have you, Miss Dignity, interfering with the pleasures of my guests. And there is to be no snubbing, and no grim looks, and no hints about work, and London, and other nonsense, when Angus Sutherland comes back to us. You shall stand by the gangway—do you hear?—and receive him with a smiling face; and if you are not particularly kind, and civil, and attentive to him, I’ll have you lashed to the yard-arm and painted blue—keel-haul me if I don’t." Fairer and fairer grew the scene around us as the brave _White Dove_ went breasting the heavy Atlantic rollers. Blue and white overhead; the hot sunlight doing its best to dry the dripping decks; Iona shining there over the smoother waters of the Sound; the sea breaking white, and spouting up in columns, as it dashed against the pale red promontories of the Ross of Mull. But then this stiff breeze had backed to the west; and there was many a long tack to be got over before we left behind the Atlantic swell and ran clear into the Sound. The evening was drawing on apace as we slowly and cautiously steered into the little creek of Polterriv. No sooner had the anchor rattled out than we heard the clear tinkling of Master Fred’s bell; how on earth had he managed to cook dinner amid all that diving and rolling and pitching?