"Oh, yes!" he says. "You are quite right. It does look as if we were going to have a dirty night." And with that he turns to the sea again. "Aye," says the Laird, sententiously. "I am glad we are in a boat we need have no fear of—none! Keep her away from the shore, and we are all right. But—but I suppose we will get into some harbour to-night, after all?" "It does not matter," he says, absently; and then he goes away up to the bow. He is alone there; for the men have gone below for dinner—with the exception of John of Skye, who is at the helm. Presently the special friend of the young man puts aside that opera-glass case, and walks timidly forward to the bow of the yacht. She regards him somewhat anxiously; but his face is turned away from her—looking over to the gloomy Jura hills. "Angus," she says, briskly, "are we not going very near Jura, if it is West Loch Tarbert we are making for?" He turned to her then, and she saw by his face that something had happened. "You have spoken to her, Angus?" she said, in a low voice; and her earnest, kind eyes regarded the young man as if to anticipate his answer. "Yes." For a second or so he seemed disinclined to say more; but presently he added, scarcely looking at her— "I am sorry that I must leave you the first time we get near land." "Oh, Angus!" It was almost a cry—uttered in that low, piteous voice. Then he looked at her. "You have been very kind to me," said he, so that no one should hear. "It is only a misfortune. But I wish I had never seen the _White Dove_." "Oh, Angus; don’t say that!" "It is my own fault. I should never have come from Edinburgh. I knew that. I knew I was hazarding everything. And she is not to blame——" He could say no more, for one or two of the men now came up from the forecastle. His hostess left him and went aft, with a hurt and indignant look on her face. When the Laird asked why Miss Mary did not come on deck, she said, "I don’t know," with an air which said she had ceased to take any further care in Mary Avon’s actions. And at dinner, what heed did she pay to the fact that Mary Avon was rather white, and silent, and pained-looking? She had been disappointed. She had not expected the friend of her bosom to act in this heartless manner. And as for Howard Smith, she treated that young gentleman with a cold courtesy which rather astonished him. After dinner, when the men folk had gone on deck, and when she was preparing to go too, a timid, appealing hand was laid on her arm. "I would like to speak to you," said the low voice of Mary Avon. Then she turned—only for a second. "I think I know enough of what has happened, Mary," said she; "and it would not be right for me to intermeddle. Young people are the best judges of their own affairs." The appealing hand was withdrawn; the girl retired to the saloon, and sate down alone.