*CHAPTER II.* *ONLY A HEADACHE.* Stornoway harbour, indeed! The weather was laughing at us. The glass had steadily fallen until it had got about as low as it could go with decency; and yet this next morning was more beautiful, and bright, and calm than ever! Were we to be for ever confined in this remote Loch of the Burying Place? "Angus! Angus! where are you?" the Admiral calls out, as she comes up on deck. "Here I am," calls out a voice in return, from the cross-trees. She raises her head, and perceives the ruddy-faced Doctor hanging on by the ratlines. "Where is the fine sailing weather you were to bring us—eh?" "I have been looking for it," he replies, as he comes down the rigging; "and there is not a breath anywhere." "Very well," she says, promptly; "I’ll tell you what you must do. You must get everybody who can handle a gun into the gig and go away up to the head of the loch there, and shoot every living thing you can see. Do you understand? We are on the brink of starvation! We are perishing! Do you want us to boil tarred rope into soup?" "No," he says, humbly. "Very well. Away you go. If you can’t bring us any wind to take us into a civilised place, you must provide us with food; is that clear enough?" Here Captain John comes aft, touching his cap. "Good morning mem! I was never seeing the like of this weather, mem." "I don’t want to see any more of it," she says, sharply. "Did you bring us in here because there was a convenient place to bury us in? Do you know that we are dying of starvation?" "Oh, no, mem!" says Captain John, with a grin; but looking rather concerned all the same. However, her attention is quickly called away by the sound of oars. She turns and regards this small boat approaching the yacht; and the more she looks the more do her eyes fill with astonishment. "Well, I declare!" she says, "this is about the coolest thing I have seen for ages." For it is Miss Mary Avon who is rowing the dingay back to the yacht; and her only companion is the Youth, who is contentedly seated in the stern, with his gun laid across his knees. "Good morning, Mr. Smith!" she says, with the most gracious sarcasm. "Pray don’t exert yourself too much. Severe exercise before breakfast is very dangerous." The Youth lays hold of the rope; there is a fine blush on his handsome face. "It is Miss Avon’s fault," he says; "she would not let me row." "I suppose she expected you to shoot? Where are the duck, and the snipe, and the golden plover? Hand them up!" "If you want to see anything in the shape of game about this coast, you’d better wait till next Sunday," says he, somewhat gloomily.