And so she went out into the garden, where she found Miss Avon again seated at her easel. She went gently over to her; she had the telegram in her hand. For a second or two she stood irresolute; then she boldly walked across the lawn, and put her hand on the girl’s shoulder. With the other hand she held the telegram before Mary Avon’s eyes. "Mary," said she, in a very low and gentle voice, "will you write to him now and ask him to come back?" The girl dropped the brush she had been holding on to the grass, and her face got very pale. "Oh, how could I do that?" said she, in an equally low—and frightened—voice. "You sent him away." There was no answer. The elder woman waited; she only saw that Mary Avon’s fingers were working nervously with the edge of the palette. "Mary," said she at length, "am I right in imagining the cause of your sending him away? May I write and explain, if you will not?" "Oh, how can you explain?" the girl said, almost piteously. "It is better as it is. Did you not hear what the kindest friend I ever found in the world had to say of me yesterday, about young people who were too prudent, and were mercenary; and how he had no respect for young people who thought too much about money——" "Mary, Mary!" the other said, "he was not speaking about you. You mercenary! He was speaking about a young man who would throw over his sweetheart for the sake of money. You mercenary! Well, let me appeal to Angus! When I explain to him, and ask him what he thinks of you, I will abide by his answer." "Well, I did not think of myself; it was for his sake I did it," said the girl, in a somewhat broken voice; and tears began to steal down her cheeks, and she held her head away. "Well then, I won’t bother you anymore, Mary," said the other, in her kindliest way. "I won’t ask you to do anything, except to get ready to get down to the yacht." "At once?" said the girl, instantly getting up, and drying her eyes. She seemed greatly relieved by this intimation of an immediate start. "As soon as the men have the luggage taken down." "Oh, that will be very pleasant," said she, immediately beginning to put away her colours. "What a fine breeze! I am sure I shall be ready in fifteen minutes." Then the usual bustle began; messages flying up and down, and the gig and dingay racing each other to the shore and back again. By twelve o’clock everything had been got on board. Then the _White Dove_ gently glided away from her moorings; we had started on our last and longest voyage. It seemed innumerable ages since we had been in our sea-home. And that first glance round the saloon—as our absent friend the Doctor had remarked—called up a multitude of recollections, mostly converging to a general sense of snugness, and remoteness, and good fellowship. The Laird sank down into a corner of one of the couches, and said—