And so, when the anchor was swung out, and quiet restored over the vessel, we proceeded to get below. There were a great many things to be handed down; and a careful search had to be made that nothing was forgotten—we did not want to find soaked shawls or books lying on the deck in the morning. But at length all this was settled too, and we were assembled once more in the saloon. We were assembled—all but two. "Where is Miss Mary?" said the Laird cheerfully: he was always the first to miss his companion. "Perhaps she is in her cabin," said his hostess somewhat nervously. "And your young Doctor—why does he not come down and have his glass of toddy like a man?" said the Laird, getting his own tumbler. "The young men now-a-days are just as frightened as children. What with their chemistry, and their tubes, and their percentages of alcohol: there was none of that nonsense when I was a young man. People took what they liked, so long as it agreed with them; and will anybody tell me there is any harm in a glass of good Scotch whisky?" She does not answer; she looks somewhat preoccupied and anxious. "Ay, ay," continues the Laird, reaching over for the sugar; "if people would only stop there, there is nothing in the world makes such an excellent night-cap as a single glass of good Scotch whisky. Now, ma’am, I will just beg you to try half a glass of my brewing." She pays no attention to him. For first of all she now hears a light step on the companion-way, and then the door of the ladies’ cabin is opened, and shut again. Then a heavy step on the companion-way, and Dr. Sutherland comes into the saloon. There is a strange look on his face—not of dejection; but he tries to be very reticent and modest, and is inordinately eager in handing a knife to the Laird for the cutting of a lemon. "Where is Mary, Angus?" said his hostess, looking at him. "She has gone into your cabin," said he, looking up with a sort of wistful appeal in his eyes. As plainly as possible they said, "Won’t you go to her?" The unspoken request was instantly answered; she got up and quietly left the saloon. "Come, lad," said the Laird. "Are ye afraid to try a glass of Scotch whisky? You chemical men know too much: that is not wholesome; and you a Scotchman too—take a glass, man!" "Twelve, if you like," said the Doctor, laughing; "but one will do for my purpose. I’m going to follow your example, sir; I am going to propose a toast. It is a good old custom." This was a proposal after the Laird’s own heart. He insisted on the women being summoned; and they came. He took no notice that Mary Avon was rose-red, and downcast of face; and that the elder woman held her hand tightly, and had obviously been crying a little bit—not tears of sorrow. When they were seated, he handed each a glass. Then he called for silence, waiting to hear our Doctor make a proper and courtly speech about his hostess, or about the _White Dove_, or John of Skye, or anything.