And after all there is no ambitious effort to trouble her. It is only a rough jotting of form and colour, for future use. It is a pleasant occupation for this still, cool, beautiful morning; and perhaps she is fairly well satisfied with it, for one listening intently might catch snatches of songs and airs—of a somewhat incoherent and inappropriate character. For what have the praises of Bonny Black Bess to do with sunrise in Loch Speliv? Or the saucy Arethusa either? But all the same the work goes quietly and dexterously on—no wild dashes and searchings for theatrical effect, but a patient mosaic of touches precisely reaching their end. She does not want to bewilder the world. She wants to have trustworthy records for her own use. And she seems content with the progress she is making. _Here’s a health to the girls that we loved long ago,_ this is the last air into which she has wandered—half humming and half whistling— _Where the Shannon, and Liffey, and Blackwater flow._ —when she suddenly stops her work to listen. Can any one be up already? The noise is not repeated; and she proceeds with her work. _Here’s a health to old Ireland: may she ne’er be dismayed;_ _Then pale grew the cheeks of the Irish Brigade!_ The clouds are assuming substance now: they are no mere flat washes but accurately drawn objects that have their fore-shortening like anything else. And if Miss Avon may be vaguely conscious that had our young Doctor been on board she would not have been left so long alone, that had nothing to with her work. The mornings on which he used to join her on deck, and chat to her while she painted, seem far away now. He and she together would see Dunvegan no more. But who is this who most cautiously comes up the companion, bearing in his hand a cup and saucer? "Miss Avon," says he, with a bright laugh, "here is the first cup of tea I ever made; are you afraid to try it?" "Oh, dear me," said she, penitently, "did I make any noise in getting my things below?" "Well," he says, "I thought I heard you; and I knew what you would be after; and I got up and lit the spirit-lamp." "Oh, it is so very kind of you," she says—for it is really a pretty little attention on the part of one who is not much given to shifting for himself on board. Then he dives below again and fetches her up some biscuits. "By Jove," he says, coming closer to the sketch, "that is very good. That is awfully good. Do you mean to say you have done all that this morning?" "Oh, yes," she says, modestly. "It is only a sketch." "I think it uncommonly good," he says, staring at it as if he would pierce the paper. Then there is a brief silence, during which Miss Avon boldly adventures upon this amateur’s tea. "I beg your pardon," he says, after a bit, "it is none of my business, you know—but you don’t really mean that you are going back to London?" "If I am allowed," she answers with a smile.