But there was to be no Castle Osprey for Angus Sutherland that evening, despite the splendid run the _White Dove_ had made. It was a race, indeed, between the yacht and the steamer for the quay; and notwithstanding that Mary Avon was counselling everybody to give it up as impossible, John of Skye would hold to it in the hope of pleasing Dr. Sutherland himself. And no sooner was the anchor let go in the bay, than the gig was down from the davits; the men had jumped in; the solitary portmanteau was tossed into the stern; and Angus Sutherland was hurriedly bidding his adieux. The steamer was at this instant slowing into the quay. "I forbid any one to say good-bye to him," says our Admiral-in-chief, sternly. "_Au revoir—auf Wiedersehen_—anything you like—no good-bye." Last of all he took Mary Avon’s hand. "You have promised, you know," she said, with her eyes cast down. "Yes," said he, regarding her for an instant with a strange look—earnest perhaps, and yet timid—as if it would ask a question, and dared not—"I will keep my promise." Then he jumped into the boat. That was a hard pull away to the quay; and even in the bay the water was rough, so that the back-sweep of the oars sometimes caught the waves and sent the spray flying in the wind. The _Chevalier_ had rung her bells. We made sure he would be too late. What was the reason of this good-natured indulgence? We lost sight of the gig in at the landing-slip. Then the great steamer slowly steamed away from the quay: who was that on the paddle-box waving good-bye to us? "Oh, yes, I can see him plainly," calls out Queen T., looking through a glass; and there is a general waving of handkerchiefs in reply to the still visible signal. Mary Avon waves her handkerchief, too—in a limp fashion. We do not look at her eyes. And when the gig came back, and we bade good-bye for the time to the brave old _White Dove_, and set out for Castle Osprey, she was rather silent. In vain did the Laird tell her some of the very best ones about Homesh; she seemed anxious to get into the house and to reach the solitude of her own room. But in the meantime there was a notable bundle of letters, newspapers, and what not, lying on the hall-table. This was the first welcome that civilisation gave us. And although we defied these claims—and determined that not an envelope should be opened till after dinner—Mary Avon, having only one letter awaiting her, was allowed to read that. She did it mechanically, listlessly—she was not in very good spirits. But suddenly we heard her utter some slight exclamation; and then we turned and saw that there was a strange look on her face—of dismay and dread. She was pale, too, and bewildered—like one stunned. Then without a word, she handed the letter to her friend. "What is the matter, Mary?"