There was certainly no effort at keeping a secret on the part of the Laird; every one might have heard these two talking as they quietly walked up and down. "I am going to ask ye, plump and plain, if ye are not anxious about going to London, and worrying yourself about the selling of your pictures? There now; answer me that." "Not very much, sir," she says, in a low voice. "Listen to me," he said, speaking in a remarkably emphatic way. "If that is on your mind, dismiss it. I tell you what: I will undertake, on my own responsibeelity, that every painting in oil, and every sketch in oil, and every water-colour drawing, and every sketch in water-colour that ye have on board this yacht, will be sold within one fortnight of your leaving the yacht. Do ye understand that?" "You are very kind, sir." "I am not bletherin’," said he; "no man ever knew me draw back from my word. So put that anxiety away from your mind altogether, and let us have no more troubles. I could sell—I could sell four times as many for ye in a fortnight! Bless ye, lassie, ye do not know the people in the West of Scotland yet—ye’ll know them better by and by. If there’s one thino- thev understand better than another it is a good picture; and they are ready to put their hand in their pocket. Oh! they Edinburgh bodies are very fine creetics—they have what they believe to be an elegant society in Edinburgh—and they talk a great deal about pictures; but do they put their hand in their pocket? Ask Tom Galbraith. Ask him where he sets three-fourths of his income. He lives in Edinburgh; but he gets his income from the West of Scotland. Tom’s a wise lad. He knows how to feather his nest. And when he has become independent of the picture-dealers, then he’ll go to London, and fight the men there on their own ground." "I should like to see some of Mr. Galbraith s work," she said, "before I return to England." "You will have plenty of leisure to look at them by and by," replied the Laird, quite simply. "I have some of Tom’s very best things at Denny-mains." It was not until the cool of the afternoon that a light breeze sprung up to fill the sails of the _White Dove_, and press her gently on towards the coast of Cantyre. By this time every one on board knew that Angus Sutherland was leaving, and leaving for good. "I hope ye will come and see me at Denny-mains, Dr. Sutherland," said the Laird, good-naturedly, "when ye happen to be in Scotland. I have a neighbour there ye would be glad to meet—a man who could talk to ye on your own subjects—Mr. Stoney." Our Doctor paid but little heed. He was silent, and distraught. His eyes had an absent and heavy look in them. "A most distinguished man," the Laird continued. "I am told his reputation in England is just as great as it is in this country. A very distinguished man indeed. He read a paper before the British Association not many years ago." "About what, do you remember?" said the other, at last.