"No; but I mean long before Sunday. However," he says, cheerfully, and looking at her, "there is a wonderful change in ye—wonderful! Well do I mind the day I first saw ye, on the quay; though it seems a long time since then. Ye were a poor white bit thing then; I was astonished; and the next day too, when ye were lame as well, I said to myself, ’Well; it’s high time that bit lass had a breath o’ the sea air.’ And now—why ye just mind me o’ the lasses in the Scotch songs—the country lasses, ye know—with the fine colour on your face." And indeed this public statement did not tend to decrease the sun-brown that now tinged Mary Avon’s cheeks. "These lads," said he—no doubt referring to his nephew and to Angus Sutherland, who were both labouring at the long oars—"are much too attentive to ye, putting ye under the shadow of the sails, and bringing ye parasols and things like that. No, no; don’t you be afraid of getting sun-burned; it is a comely and wholesome thing: is it not reasonable that human beings need the sunlight as much as plants? Just ask your friend Dr. Sutherland that; though a man can guess as much without a microscope. Keep ye in the sun, Miss Mary; never mind the brown on your cheeks, whatever the young men say: I can tell ye ye are looking a great deal better now than when ye stepped on shore—a shilpit pale bit thing—on that afternoon." Miss Avon had not been in the habit of receiving lectures like this about her complexion, and she seemed rather confused; but fortunately the measured noise of the rowlocks prevented the younger men from overhearing. _"There was Mary Beaton, and Mary Seaton,_ _And Mary Avon, and me."—_ continued the Laird, in his facetious way; and he contentedly patted the hand of the girl beside him. "I fear I am growing very fond of idleness." "I am sure, sir, you are so busy during the rest of the year," says this base flatterer, "that you should be able to enjoy a holiday with a clear conscience."