_"O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison,_ _Since we were sundered young,_ _I’ve never seen your face, nor heard_ _The music of your tongue;_ _But I could hug all wretchedness,_ _And happy could I dee,_ _Did I but ken your heart still dreamed_ _O’ bygane days and me!"_ Just as he finished, the old Laird turned aside his head. He seemed to be suddenly interested in something over at the mouth of Loch Swen. Then he quickly passed his red silk handkerchief across his face, and said, in a gay manner—though he was still looking in that alien direction— "This is a desperate hard pull. We had nothing like this yesterday. But it will do the lads good; it will take the stiffness out of their backs." However, one of the lads—to wit, the Laird’s nephew—admitted at length that he had had quite enough of it, and gave up his oar to the man he had relieved. Then he came into the stern, and was very pleasant and talkative; and said he had quite made up his mind to find all the seals gone from the shores of the sacred island. So formidable, indeed, was the tide, that we had to keep well away to the south of the island before venturing to make across for it; and when at length we did put the bow straight for the little harbour, the mid-channel current swept us away northward, as if the gig had been a bit of cork. But the four oars kept manfully to their work; and by dint of hard pulling and pertinacious steering we managed to run into the little bay. We found it quite deserted. The two lobster-fishers had left in the morning; we were in sole possession of this lonely island, set amid the still summer seas. But by this time it was nearly noon; and so it was arranged that the men of the party should content themselves with a preliminary expedition, to find out, by stealthy crawlings out to the various bays, where the seals were chiefly congregated; while the women were to remain by the Saints’ Well, to help Fred to get luncheon spread out and arranged. And this was done; and thus it happened that, after Master Fred had finished his work, and retired down to his mates in the gig, the two women-folk were left alone. "Why, Mary," said the one of them, quite cheerfully (as we afterwards heard), "it is quite a long time since you and I had a chat together." "Yes, it is." "One gets so often interfered with on board, you know. Aren’t you going to begin now and make a sketch?" She had brought with her her sketching materials; but they were lying unopened on a rock hard by. "No, I think not," she said, listlessly. "What is the matter with you?" said her kind friend, pretending to laugh at her. "I believe you are fretting over the loss of the money, after all." "Oh, no: I hope you do not think I am fretting!" said she, anxiously. "No one has said that? I am really quite content—I am very—happy." She managed to say the word.