"I don’t think you are looking quite as well as when I left," said he, with a great interest and kindness in his look. "Thank you, I am very well," she said; and then she instantly turned to the Laird and began chatting to him. Angus Sutherland’s face burned red; it was not thus she had been used to greet him in the morning, when we were far away beyond the shores of Canna. And then, when we found that the rain was over, and that there was not a breath of wind in this silent, grey, sombre world of mountain and mist, and when we went ashore for a walk along the still lake, what must she needs do but attach herself to the Laird, and take no notice of her friend of former days? Angus walked behind with his hostess, but he rarely took his eyes off the people in front. And when Miss Avon, picking up a wild flower now and again, was puzzling over its name, he did not, as once he would have done, come to her help with his student-days’ knowledge of botany. Howard Smith brought her a bit of wall rue, and said he thought they called it _Asplenium marinum_: there was no interference. The preoccupied Doctor behind only asked how far Miss Avon was going to walk with her lame foot. The Laird of Denny-mains knew nothing of all this occult business. He was rejoicing in his occupation of philosopher and guide. He was assuring us all that this looked like a real Highland day—far more so than the Algerian blue sky that had haunted us for so long. He pointed out, as we walked along the winding shores of Loch Leven, by the path that rose, and fell, and skirted small precipices all hanging in foliage, how beautiful was that calm, slate-blue mirror beneath, showing every outline of the sombre mountains, with their masses of Landseer mist. He stopped his companion to ask her if she had ever seen anything finer in colour than the big clusters of scarlet rowans among the yellow-green leaves? Did she notice the scent of the meadow-sweet, in the moist air of this patch of wood? He liked to see those white stars of the grass-of-Parnassus; they reminded him of many a stroll among the hills about Loch Katrine. "And this still Loch Leven," he said at length, and without the least blush on his face, "with the Glencoe mountains at the end of it. I have often heard say was as picturesque a loch as any in Scotland, on a gloomy day like this. Gloomy I call it, but ye see there are fine silver glints among the mist; and—and, in fact, there’s a friend of mine has often been wishing to have a water-colour sketch of it. If ye had time, Miss Mary, to make a bit drawing from the deck of the yacht, ye might name your own price—just name your own price. I will buy it for him." A friend! Mary Avon knew very well who the friend was. "I should be afraid, sir," said she, laughing, "to meddle with anything about Glencoe."