erything put right against his coming," | ing down from time to time on a spacious he says. "At all events, your captain seems to think that every good breeze he gets is merely thrown away on us.

"Dr. Sutherland and he," she says, laughing," were very good friends. And then Angus had very bad luck when he was on board: the glass wouldn't fall. But I have promised to bottle up the equinoctials for him-he will have plenty of winds before we have done with him. You must stay too, you know, Mr. Smith, and see how the White Dove rides out a gale."

world of sun-lit sea and island-we were not averse from receiving friendly and substantial messages from those altitudes. In a day or two now the first crack of the breech-loader would startle the silence of the morning air. And Master Fred's larder was sorely in want of variety.

Northward, and still northward, the light breeze tempering the scorching sunlight that glares on the sails and the deck. Each long ripple of the running blue sea flashes in diamonds; and when we look to the south, those silver lines converge and converge, until at the horizon they become a solid blaze of light unendurable to the eye. But it is to the north we turn

He regarded her with some suspicion. He was beginning to know that this lady's speech, despite the great gentleness and innocence of her eyes, sometimes conceal--to the land of Appin, and Kingairloch, ed curious meanings. And was she now and Lochaber: blow, light wind, and carmerely giving him a kind and generous ry us onward, gentle tide; we have an invitation to go yachting with us for an appointment to keep within shadow of the other month; or was she, with a cruel sar-mountains that guard Glencoe. casm, referring to the probability of his having to remain a prisoner for that time, in order to please his uncle?

However, the conversation had to be dropped, for at this moment the Laird and his protégée made their appearance; and of course a deck chair had to be brought for her, and a footstool, and a sun-shade, and a book. But what were these attentions, on the part of her elderly slave, compared with the fact that a young man, presumably enjoying a sound and healthy sleep, should have unselfishly got up at an unholy hour of the morning, and should have risked blowing up the yacht with spirits of wine in order to get her a cup of tea?

The Laird has discovered that these two were up early this morning: he becomes facetious.

"Not sleepy yet, Miss Mary ?" he says. "Oh no, not at all," she says, looking up from her book.

"It's the early bird that catches the first sketch. Fine and healthy is that early rising, Howard. I'm thinking ye did not sleep sound last night: what for were ye up before anybody was stirring ?"

But the Laird does not give him time to answer. Something has tickled the fancy of this profound humorist.

66

Kee! kee!" he laughs, and he rubs his hands. "I mind a good one I heard from Tom Galbraith when he and I were at the Bridge of Allan; room to room, ye know; and Tom did snore that night. 'What,' said I to him in the morning, had ye nightmare, or delirium tremens, that ye made such a noise in the night?' 'Did I snore?' said he-I'm thinking somebody else must have complained before. 'Snore!' said I; 'twenty grampuses was nothing to it.' And Tom-he burst

It was a fine sailing day. Running before a light top-sail breeze from the southeast, the White Dove was making for the Lynn of Morven, and bringing us more and more within view of the splendid circle of mountains, from Ben-Cruachan in the east to Ben-Nevis in the north, from Ben-Nevis down to the successive waves of the Morven hills. And we knew why, among all the sun-lit yel-out a-laughing. 'I'm very glad,' says he. lows and greens-faint as they were in the distance there were here and there on slope and shoulder stains of a beautiful rose-purple that were a new feature in the landscape. The heather was coming into bloom-the knee-deep, honey-scented heather, the haunt of the snipe, and the muir-cock, and the mountain hare. And if there was to be for us this year no toiling over the high slopes and crags-look-you."

'If I snored, I must have had a sound sleep!' A sound sleep-d'ye see? Very sharp-very smart-eh ?"-and the Laird laughed and chuckled over that portentous joke.

"Oh, uncle! uncle! uncle!" his nephew cried. "You used never to do such things. You must quit the society of those artists, if they have such a corrupting influence on

"I tell ye," he says, with a sudden seri- We catch a distant glimpse of the white ousness, "I would just like to show Tom houses of Port Appin; we bid adieu to the Galbraith that picture o' Canna that's be- musically named Eilean-na-Shuna; far low. No; I would not ask him to alter a ahead of us is the small white light-house thing. Very good-very good it is. And at the mouth of the narrows of Corran. -and-I think-I will admit it-for a But there is to be no run up to Fort Willplain man likes the truth to be told-there iam for us to-night; the tide will turn is just a bit jealousy among them against soon; we can not get through the Corran any English person that tries to paint narrows. And so there is a talk of BallaScotch scenery. No, no, Miss Mary-hulish; and Captain John is trying hard don't you be afraid. Ye can hold your to get Miss Avon to pronounce this Bal-aown. If I had that picture, now--if it be- chaolish. It is not fair of Sandy from longed to me--and if Tom was stopping Islay-who thinks he is hidden by the wi' me at Denny-mains, I would not allow foresail-to grin to himself at these innohim to alter it-not if he offered to spend cent efforts. a week's work on it."

Grander and grander grow those ram

After that-what? The Laird could parts of mountains ahead of us-with say no more.

Alas! alas! our wish to take a new route northward was all very well; but we had got under the lee of Lismore, and slowly and slowly the wind died away, until even the sea was as smooth as the surface of a mirror. It was but little compensation that we could lean over the side of the yacht and watch the thousands of "sea-blubbers" far down in the water, in all their hues of blue and purple and pale pink. The heat of the sun was blistering, scorching with a sharp pain any nose or cheek that was inadvertently turned toward it. As for the Laird, he could not stand this oven-like business any longer; he declared the saloon was ever so much cooler than the deck; and went down below, and lay at length on one of the long blue cushions.

"Why, John," says Queen T, "you are bringing on those dead calms again. What will Dr. Sutherland say to you?"

But John of Skye has his eye on the distant shore.

"Oh no, mem," he says, with a crafty smile, "there will not be a dead calm very long.'

And there, in at the shore, we see a dark line on the water; and it spreads and spreads; the air becomes gratefully cool to the face before the breeze perceptibly fills the sails; then there is a cheerful swinging over of the boom and a fluttering of the as yet unreleased head-sails. A welcome breeze, surely, from the far hills of Kingairloch. We thank you, you beautiful Kingairloch, with your deep glens and your rose-purple shoulders of hills: long may you continue to send fresh westerly winds to the parched and passing voyager!

their wine-colored stains of heather on the soft and velvety yellow-green. The wind from the Kingairloch shores still carries us on; and Inversanda swells the breeze; soon we shall be running into that wide channel that leads up to the beautiful Loch Leven. The Laird re-appears on deck. He is quite enchanted with the scene around him. He says if an artist had placed that black cloud behind the great bulk of Ben-Nevis, it could not have been more artistically arranged. He declares that this entrance to Loch Leven is one of the most beautiful places he has ever seen. He calls attention to the soft green foliage of the steep hills, and to that mighty peak of granite, right in the middle of the landscape, that we discover to be called the Pap of Glencoe. And here, in the mellow light of the afternoon, is the steamer coming down from the north: is it to be a race between us for the Bal-a-chaolish quay ?

It is an unfair race. We have to yield to brute strength and steam-kettles.

"Four to one Argyll came on," as the dirge of Eric says. But we bear no malice. We salute our enemy as he goes roaring and throbbing by; and there is many a return signal waved to us from the paddle-boxes.

"Mr. Sutherland iss no there, mem, I think," says Captain John, who has been scanning those groups of people with his keen eyes.

"I should think not: he said he was coming to-morrow," is the answer.

"Will he be coming down by the Chevalier in the morning, or by the Mountaineer at night?" is the further question.

And so, after a bit, they went on deck, these two, leaving the others to their bézique. And the Laird was as careful The roaring out of the anchor chain about the wrapping up of this girl as if was almost immediately followed by she had been a child of five years of age; Master Fred's bell. Mary Avon was si- and when they went out on to the white lent and distraite at dinner; but nothing deck, he would give her his arm that she more was said of her return to London. should not trip over any stray rope; and It was understood that when Angus they were such intimate friends now that Sutherland came on board we should go | he did not feel called upon to talk to her. back to Castle Osprey, and have a couple of days on shore, to let the White Dove get rid of her parasitic sea-weed.

Psalm-it reminds me most of all of the seen her sence she was knee-high to a hoptoad, as you may say. He ain't livin', is

Scotch phrase,

'Laughin' maist like to greet' -'When the Lord turned again the captivity of Zion, we were like them that dream. Then was our mouth filled with laughter, and our tongue with singing: then said they among the heathen, The Lord hath done great things for them. The Lord hath done great things for us; whereof we are glad. Turn again our captivity, O Lord, as the streams in the south."

The Laird was silent for a minute or two; there was nothing but the pacing up and down the moon-lit deck.

"And you have your troubles too, my lass," said he at length. "Oh, I know, though ye put so brave a face on it. But you need not be afraid-you need not be afraid. Keep up your heart. I am an old man now; I may have but few years to reckon on; but while I live ye will not want a friend.... Ye will not want a friend.... If I forget, or refuse what I promise ye this night, may God do so and more unto me!"

But the good-hearted Laird will not have her go to sleep with this solemnity weighing on her mind.

"I

MISS BEULAH'S BONNET. DON'T want to be too fine, ye know, Mary Jane; somethin' tasty and kind of suitable. It's an old bunnit; but my! them Leghorns 'll last a generation if you favor 'em: that was mother's weddin' bunnit."

"You don't say so! Well, it has kept remarkable well; but a good Leghorn will last, that's a fact, though they get real brittle after a spell; and you'll have to be awful careful of this, Miss Beulah; it's brittle now, I see."

he?"

"No; he died two years ago, leavin' her with three children. Sarah is a grown girl; and then there's Jack, he's eight, and Janey, she's three. There was four died between Jack and Sarah. I guess she's full eighteen."

"Mercy to me! time flies, don't it? But about the bunnit: what should you say to this lavender ribbin?"

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Ain't I kind of dark for lavender? I had an idee to have brown, or mabbe dark green."

"Land! for spring? Why, that ain't the right thing. This lavender is real han'some, and I'll set it off with a little black lace, and put a bow on't in the front; it'll be real dressy and seemly for you."

"Well, you can try it, Mary Jane; but I give you fair warnin', if I think it's too dressy, you'll have to take it all off."

"I'm willin'," laughed Miss Mary Jane Beers, a good old soul, and a contemporary of her customer, Miss Beulah Larkin, who was an old maid living in Dorset on a small amount of money carefully invested, and owning the great red house which her grandfather had built for a large family on one corner of his farm. Farm and family were both gone now, save and except Miss Beulah and her niece; but the old lady and a little maid she had taken to bring up dwelt in one end of the wide house, and contrived to draw more than half their subsistence from the garden and orchard attached to it.

Here they spun out an innocent existence, whose chief dissipations were evening meetings, sewing societies, funerals, and the regular Sunday services, to which all the village faithfully repaired, and any absence from which was commented on, investigated, and reprobated, if without good excuse, in the most unsparing manner. Miss Beulah Larkin was tall, gaunt, hard-featured, and good. Everybody respected her, some feared, and a few loved her; but she was not that sort of soul which thirsts to be loved; her "Yes, I expect it is, but it 'll carry me whole desire and design was to do her through this summer, I guess. But I duty and be respectable. Into this latter want you to make it real tasty, Mary Jane, clause came the matter of a bonnet, over for my niece Miss Smith, she that was which she had held such anxious dis'Liza Barber, is coming to stay awhile to course. If she had any feminine vanity our house this summer, and she lives in-and she was a woman-it took this virthe city, you know." tuous aspect of a desire to be "respectit "Liza Barber! do tell! Why, I haven't like the lave," for decency of dress as well

as demeanor. This spring she had received a letter from her niece, the widowed Mrs. Smith, asking if she could come to visit her; and sending back a pleased assent, Miss Beulah and her little handmaid, Nanny Starks, bestirred themselves to sweep and garnish the house, already fresh and spotless from its recent annual cleaning. Windows were opened, beds put out to sun, blankets aired, spreads unfolded, sheets taken from the old chests, and long-disused dimity curtains washed, ironed, and tacked up against the smallpaned sashes, and tied back with scraps of flowered ribbon, exhumed from hidden shelves, that might well have trimmed that Leghorn bonnet in its first youth.

Mrs. Eliza Smith was a poor woman, but a woman of resource. Her visit was not purely of affection, or of family respect. Her daughter Sarah-a pretty, slight, graceful girl, with gold-brown hair, dark straight brows above a pair of limpid gray eyes, red lips, and a clear pale skin-had been intended by her mother to blossom into beauty in due season, and "marry well," as the phrase goes; but Sarah and a certain Fred Wilson, telegraph operator in Dartford, had set all the thrifty mother's plans at defiance, and fallen head over heels in love, regardless of Mrs. Smith or anybody else. Sarah's brows were not black and straight, or her chin firm and cleft with a dimple, for nothing: she meant to marry Fred Wilson as soon as was convenient; and Mrs. Smith, having unusual common-sense, as well as previous experience of Sarah's capacity of resistance, ceased to oppose that young lady's resolute intention. Master Wilson had already gone West, to a more lucrative situation than Dartford afforded, and Sarah was only waiting to get ready as to her outfit, and amass enough money for the cost of travelling, to follow him, since he was unable to return for her, both from lack of money and time. In this condition of things it occurred to Mrs. Smith that it would save a good deal of money if she could spend the summer with Aunt Beulah, and so be spared the expense of board and lodging for her family. Accordingly, she looked about for a tenant for her little house; and finding one ready to come in sooner than she had anticipated, she answered Aunt Beulah's friendly letter of invitation with an immediate acceptance, and followed her own epistle at once, arriving just as the last

towel had been hung on the various washstands, and while yet the great batch of sweet home-made bread was hot from the oven; and, alas for Miss Beulah! before that Leghorn bonnet had come home from Miss Beers's front parlor, in which she carried on her flourishing millinery business.

Miss Larkin was unfeignedly glad to see Eliza again, though her eyes grew a little dim, perceiving how time had transformed the fresh, gay girl she remembered into this sad and sallow woman; but she said nothing of these changes, and giving the rest an equal welcome, established them in the clean, large, cool chambers that were such a contrast to the hot rooms, small and dingy, of their city home.

Jack was a veritable little pickle; tall of his age, and light of foot and hand; nature had framed him in body and mind for mischief; while Sarah was a pleasant, handy young girl, as long as nothing opposed her, and Janey a round and rosy poppet, who adored Jack, and rebelled against her mother and Sarah hourly. Jack was a born nuisance; Miss Beulah could hardly endure him, he did so controvert all the orders and manners. of her neat house. He hunted the hens to the brink of distraction, and broke up their nests till eggs were scarce to find-a state of things never before known in that old barn, where the hens had dwelt and done their duty, till that duty had consigned them to the stew-pan, for years | and years. He made the cat's life a burden to her in a hundred ways, and poor Nanny Starks had never any rest or peace till her tormentor was safe in bed.

Mrs. Smith began to fear her visit would be prematurely shortened on Jack's account, and Sarah, who had wisely confided her love affair to Aunt Beulah, and stirred that hardened heart to its core by her pathetic tale of poverty and separation, began to dread the failure of her hopes also, for her aunt had more than hinted that she would give something toward that travelling money which was now the girl's great object in life, since by diligent sewing she had almost finished her bridal outfit. As for Janey, she was already, in spite of her naughtiness, mistress of Aunt Beulah's very soul: round, fat, rosy, bewitching, as a child, and only a child, can be, the poor spinster's repressed affection, her denied maternity, her love of beauty-a secret to herself-and her protecting instinct, all