Is there any one awake and listening—perhaps with a tremor of the heart—for the calling out of "_White Dove_, ahoy!" from the shore? Once the ordinary loud noises of the morning are over—the brief working of the pump, the washing down of the decks—silence reigns once more throughout the yacht. One can only hear a whispering of the rain above. Then, in the distance, there is a muffled sound of the paddles of a steamer; and that becomes fainter and fainter, while the _White Dove_ gradually loses the motion caused by the passing waves. Again there is an absolute stillness; with only that whispering of the rain. But this sudden sound of oars? and the slight shock against the side of the vessel? The only person on board the yacht who is presentable whips a shawl over her head, darts up the companion way, and boldly emerges into the moist and dismal morning. "Oh, Angus!" she cries, to this streaming black figure that has just stepped on deck, "what a day you have brought with you!" "Oh, it is nothing!" says a cheerful voice from out of the dripping macintosh—perhaps it is this shining black garment that makes the wet face and whiskers and hair glow redder than ever, and makes the blue eyes look even bluer. "Nothing at all! John and I have agreed it is going to clear. But this is a fine place to be in, with a falling glass! If you get a squall down from Glencoe, you won’t forget it." "A squall!" she says, looking round, in amazement. Well might she exclaim; for the day is still, and grey, and sombre; the mountains are swathed in mist; the smooth sea troubled only by the constant rain. However, the ruddy-faced Doctor, having divested himself of his dripping garment, follows his hostess down the companion, and into the saloon, and sits down on one of the couches. There is an odd, half pathetic expression on his face, as he looks around. "It seems a long time ago," he says, apparently to himself. "What does?" asks his hostess, removing her head-gear. "The evenings we used to spend in this very saloon," says he—looking with a strange interest on those commonplace objects, the draughts and dominoes, the candlesticks and cigar-boxes, the cards and books—"away up there in the north. It seems years since we were at Dunvegan, doesn’t it, and lying off Vaternish Point? There never was as snug a cabin as this in any yacht. It is like returning to an old home to get into it." "I am very glad to hear you say so," says his hostess, regarding him with a great kindliness. "We will try to make you forget that you have ever been away. Although," she added frankly, "I must tell you you have been turned out of your state-room—for a time. I know you won’t mind having a berth made up for you on one of those couches." "Of course not," he said; "if I am not in your way at all. But——" And his face asked the question. "Oh! it is a nephew of Denny-mains who has come on board—a Mr. Smith, a very nice young fellow; I am sure you will like him."