"No, no," says our gentle Queen Titania with an involuntary shudder, "not for worlds would I climb up that iron ladder, with the sea and the rocks right below me. I should never get half-way up." "They will put a rope round your waist, if you like," it is pointed out to her. "When we go out, then," says this coward. "I will see how Mary gets on. If she does not die of fright, I may venture." "Oh, but I don’t think I shall be with you," remarks the young lady quite simply. At this there is a general stare. "I don’t know what you mean," says her hostess, with an ominous curtness. "Why, you know," says the girl, cheerfully—and disengaging one hand to get her hair out of her eyes—"I can’t afford to go idling much longer. I must get back to London." "Don’t talk nonsense," says the other woman, angrily. "You may try to stop other people’s holidays, if you like; but I am going to look after yours. Holidays! How are you to work, if you don’t work now? Will you find many landscapes in Regent Street?" "I have a great many sketches," says Mary Avon, "and I must try to make something out of them, where there is less distraction of amusement. And really, you know, you have so many friends—would you like me to become a fixture—like the mainmast—" "I would like you to talk a little common sense," is the sharp reply. "You are not going back to London till the _White Dove_ is laid up for the winter—that is what I know." "I am afraid I must ask you to let me off," she says, quite simply and seriously. "Suppose I go up to London next week? Then, if I get on pretty well, I may come back——" "You may come back!" says the other with a fine contempt. "Don’t try to impose on me. I am an older woman than you. And I have enough provocations and worries from other quarters: I don’t want you to begin and bother." "Is your life so full of trouble?" says the girl, innocently. "What are these fearful provocations?" "Never mind. You will find out in time. But when you get married, Mary, don’t forget to buy a copy of Doddridge on Patience. That should be included in every bridal trousseau." "Poor thing—is it so awfully ill-used?" replies the steersman, with much compassion. Here John of Skye comes forward. "If ye please, mem, I will tek the tiller until we get round the Ross. The rocks are very bad here." "All right, John," says the young lady; and then, with much cautious clinging to various objects, she goes below, saying that she means to do a little more to a certain slight water-colour sketch of Polterriv. We know why she wants to put some further work on that hasty production. Yesterday the Laird expressed high approval of the sketch. She means him to take it with him to Denny-mains, when she leaves for London.