Then Angus comes down the companion: he has got some wild flowers; he has been ashore. And surely he ought to give them to the younger of the two women: she is of the age when such pretty compliments are a natural thing. But no. The flowers are for his hostess—for the decoration of her table; and Mary Avon does not look up as they are handed along. Then young Mr. Smith makes his appearance; he has been ashore too. And his complaints and protests fill the air. "Didn’t I tell you?" he says, appealing more especially to the women-folk for sympathy. "Didn’t I tell you? You saw all those golden plover yesterday, and the wild duck further up the loch: there is not a sign of one of them! I knew it would be so. As sure as Monday begins, you never get a chance! I will undertake to say that when we get to those islands where all the seals were yesterday, we sha’n’t see one to-day!" "But are we to stop here a whole day in order to let you go and shoot seals?" says his hostess. "You can’t help it," says he, laughing. "There isn’t any wind." "Angus," she says—as if nobody knew anything about the wind but the young Doctor—"is that so?" "Not a doubt of it," he says. "But it is a beautiful day. You might make up a luncheon-party, and have a pic-nic by the side of the Saint’s Well—down in the hollow, you know." "Much chance I shall have with the seals, then!" remarks the other young man, good-naturedly enough. However, it is enough that the suggestion has come from Angus Sutherland. A pic-nic on the Island of the Saints is forthwith commanded—seals or no seals. And while Master Fred, immediately after breakfast, begins his preparations, the Laird helps by carefully putting a corkscrew in his pocket. It is his invariable custom. We are ready for any emergency. And if the golden plover, and mergansers, and seals appear to know that the new, busy, brisk working-days have begun again, surely we ought to know it too. Here are the same silent shores; and the calm blue seas and blue sky; and the solitary islands in the south—all just as they were yesterday; but we have a secret sense that the lassitude and idleness of Sunday are over, and that there is something of freedom in the air. The Laird has no longer any need to keep a check on his tongue: those stories about Homesh may bubble up to the surface of his mind just as they please. And indeed he is exceedingly merry and facetious as the preparations go on for this excursion. When at length he gets into the stern of the boat he says to his companion— _"There was Mary Beaton, and Mary Seaton,_ _And Mary Avon, and me._ —What ails ye, lass? I have not heard much of your singing of late." "You would not have me sing profane songs on Sunday?" she says, demurely.