Well, the two would sink baited lobster-traps in the deep water near the towering cliffs, on which stood the grand old castle of Duntulm. They used to go for those lobster creels next day, and always found plenty of shell-fish.

Or they would fish from the boat lent them by a fisherman, the saith leaping at times around them as thick as rain-drops in a thunderstorm.

But it was even more pleasant to sit on the rocks, and fish with a white fly for mullet or herring. The idea of angling for herring may seem a droll one to a South Briton, but it is done nevertheless, and many is the good haul I have made myself.

From the place where the children used to fish, to Nugent's little home was a good three miles' walk. They had to pass over a chain of boulders, where wild cats dwelt. One evening they had stayed longer fishing than usual, and it was quite gloaming ere they reached the stony chaos.

Matty was trembling with fear, so Creggan threw his plaid around her, placing her on his right hand, because that was nearest to the sea, and not to that cleft and precipitous mountain face where the danger lay. Matty crept as close to the boy as she could.

Now, Creggan usually carried a stout stick with a pointed iron-shod end. It was well, indeed, that he had it to-night. For they had hardly got half-way through the chaotic mass of boulders, when the boy saw something dark in the road ahead that made his heart beat quicker for Matty's sake.

The something dark sprang off the road as Creggan and Matty slowly advanced. Indeed the child had not seen it, for she had quite buried her head and face in the plaid. The boy was beginning to think that the danger was over, but he grasped his cudgel nevertheless. Lucky for him he did so, for they had advanced but fifty yards farther, when with an unearthly and eldritch yell that dark something sprang at Creggan's neck.

It was doubtless the scent of the fish that had excited the monster. But the lad's stout plaid saved him. Matty had disengaged herself and stood trembling by the roadside, while Creggan fought this miniature tiger.

Again and again it charged, its eyes gleaming like yellow diamonds. Again and again the lad drove it off.

Victory came at last, for with one well-aimed blow it was laid dead on the road.

"It's all right now, Matty," cried Creggan cheerfully. "Come on, a run will warm us."

So it did, and they soon got clear of the "Wild Cats Cairns", as the ugly place was called.

But they never permitted themselves to be belated again.

These wild cats are still common enough in Sutherlandshire, and the adventure I have just related is very similar to one a boy had in that county. The cat on this occasion sprang from a tree. The lad was severely wounded, and although he managed to beat the beast off he did not succeed in killing it.

In the soft and fleshy part of the middle finger of my left hand are still the marks of the bite of a wild cat, with whom I had a difference of opinion. The beast had the best of it, and I went about with my arm slung to my head for three weeks at least.

That ruined castle of Duntulm was a favourite resort with the children. The donjon-keep was still entire, and from a window, or the hole where a window had been, one could look down over the precipice into the deep but clear water; and Matty used to clap her hands with joy to witness the great medusæ or jellyfish swimming about. Very beautiful indeed they were; some as big as a small open parasol, and fringed with long soft legs that kicked about in the drollest fashion.

Creggan used to read Ossian in English to Matty, and she would listen with open eyes to the wild and wondrous stories, all so full of romance and war. He knew the history of the castle too. It was at one time, he told Matty, the head stronghold of one of the M'Donald clans, and here dwelt the warlike chief. But across the sea-loch was the M'Leod country, and in his strong castle of Dunvegan dwelt the head of the clan. This castle is still inhabitable. Between the M'Donalds and the M'Leods was a blood feud, and many a fearful fight was the result.

Once the M'Donalds surprised the M'Leods in church. They heaped up banks of peats and wood in front of doors and windows, and burned or smothered every man, woman, and child. But the M'Leods took a terrible revenge, and for a long time the M'Donalds were quiet. But a thirst for revenge still lay latent in the breast of the Highland chief, and one day, under the guise of friendship, he enticed M'Leod to Duntulm Castle. When M'Leod arrived with his followers the latter were immediately set upon and slain, and although M'Leod himself laid about him boldly with his broad claymore, he was eventually captured and thrust into the donjon-keep.

Here he was kept for nearly two days without food. Then a trencher of salt beef was handed into him, and a large flagon which M'Leod thought was sack—a kind of claret. He ate heartily, then turned to the flagon to allay his thirst.

Alas, it contained only sea-water!

So poor M'Leod perished miserably of thirst and delirium.

This is a strange story, reader, but I have every reason to believe it is a true one. It quite entranced little Matty, and when Creggan had finished she sighed, looked wistfully into his face with her bonnie blue eyes, and said:

"Do tell us some more!"

Creggan Ogg[1] M'Vayne was at best, for the present at all events, only a peasant boy, and had not Willie been a bold, frank Colonial young gentleman he might have treated Creggan with some approach to hauteur. In his face at times, had he been a snob, there might have been a look that said plainly enough, "Not too near, please".

[1] Ogg is really a Gaelic word, and the "o" is pronounced long: thus "Oag". It signifies "young".

Instead of this he noted at a glance all the good in Creggan'a character, and, figuratively speaking, held out to him the right hand of fellowship and camaraderie from the first day they met.

Willie was like his little sister in many of his ways, and Creggan loved him all the more for this.

I think that nothing cements friendship between two boys more than a long tour on the road. Skye isn't much of a place for cycling, you must know. If you attempted to cross country your bike would be just as often on your back as beneath you, and there is a probability that a dive over a precipice might end your earthly career. But there is no grander country in which to travel that I know of, even if you do not climb the mountains, many of which, however, are all but inaccessible, even to members of Alpine clubs.

So one beautiful summer day, when a wavy transparency like molten glass or the clearest of water seemed rising from the ground, when the sky was ethereal-blue, with here and there just the ghost of a cloud, and a gentle breeze blowing from far over the wide Atlantic, Willie and Creggan, with their knapsacks on their backs and sticks in their hands, started to explore the land. Of course Matty had a good cry, and kissed both boys.

"Oh," she cried, in semi-Scriptural language, "don't let any naughty evil beast devour you!"

Away the lads went, their hearts as light and joyous as that of the laverock[2] yonder, who, hovering high in the brightness of the sky, so high that he could hardly be seen, trilled his jubilant morning song.

[2] Scottice="lark", but a much more musical word.

Creggan had on his very best Highland costume, the suit he wore every Sunday to kirk, and Willie was neatly clad in strong Scotch tweed, so neither were likely to suffer from the dews of night should they be belated.

They bent their steps first to the bonnie wee village of Uig that nestles close to the loch, an arm of the sea. And here they had an excellent second breakfast, and much enjoyed the well-cooked mullet, the delicious ham and eggs—the latter those of the seagulls,—and the butter and white crisp cakes.

They had tea.

The landlady was good-hearted evidently.

"And is it," she said, "is it that you won't be taken just a thistleful[3] of mountain-dew to make your meal digest?"

[3] A glass shaped like a thistle.

But the boys only laughed and shook their heads.

The sea out yonder was very blue and still to-day, but while Willie was gazing away across it, somewhat pensively perhaps, suddenly first one then another and a third great fountain of snow-white spray was thrown about twenty feet into the air.

"Oh, look, look, Creggan! What can it be?"

"Only the blowing whales," our young hero replied. "They are always about. And there are always plenty of seals about the low rocks, but I never shoot them, because they are so beautiful, and have eyes that look through and through you."

In their march across a long heathy moorland on their way to Quiraing, for the first time in his life Willie Nugent had the pleasure of seeing a real Scottish eagle. He was wheeling round and round in circles, but ever upwards, as if he would seek to reach the sun itself, and ever and anon his wild whistling scream made hills and rocks resound.

"There now," cried Creggan, pointing skywards, "that isn't a lark this time. And that isn't a lark's song."

"No," said Willie, gazing wonderingly up at the huge bird.

He added:

"I think I should like to be an eagle. Is it true they take babies to their nests?"

"They build," said Creggan, "on shelves of rock, that in some parts here rise sheer up from the sea a thousand feet or more. Their nests are huge bundles of sticks, built as a wild pigeon arranges her nest, and in the centre is often moss, hay, and feathers. These are called eeries. Men or big boys have sometimes been let down by ropes to rob these of their yellow, fluffy, red-throated gaping fledglings; but Mr M'Ian says it is very cruel, and highly dangerous. Once, when a man went down like this and stood on the eerie, where whole skeletons of lambs lay bleaching in the sun, and many other strange bones as well, the she-eagle with a deafening scream dashed at him. He managed to beat her off, and the fight for a time was fearful. He signalled soon to be hauled up, but hardly was he in the air before the eagle swooped down again. This time she tore at the rope, and—oh! wasn't it awful, Willie?—it snapped, and the man was hurled down, down eight hundred feet into the sea."

"Terrible!"

"Yes. But though his body was found it was a headless trunk, for in his descent, you know, and when about half-way down, a piece of sharp rock cut the head clean off; and they do say that when well out to sea you can see the bleached skull, if you have a good glass, grinning on that shelf of rock."[4]

[4] The same kind of accident occurred to a shepherd in Skye, who had fallen over a precipice while trying to save a lamb.

They went on now.

Not only was the moorland covered with moss and green heather, but many charming wild flowers were scattered about, with here and there patches of sweetly-scented bog-myrtle and white downy toad's-tail, and the whole place was musical with the song of tit-larks and linnets.

They climbed that day high up into the crater of the extinct volcano Quiraing. Right in the centre is a round raised green plot, big enough to drill a company of soldiers on. At one side the wall of rock is black, wet, and solid, but at the other it is split up into needles, higher far than Cleopatra's on the Thames embankment, and between these, to-day, the boy-adventurers could catch glimpses of a sea of Italian blue, dotted here and there with many a sail, snow-white or brown.

To gaze on such a scene as this, in a silence so dread that you could hear the water dropping from the rocks, is very impressive; but like everything solemn and beautiful in nature, I think it brings one into closer union with God.

Having slid down about five hundred feet through a chaos of shingle, the boys completed the descent on firm ground, and then bent their footsteps back to Uig. They were tired enough to sleep soundly after a capital supper, and next day they crossed the loch to visit the land of the M'Leods, and the grand old feudal castle of Dunvegan.

And so, on and on and on for many days, by moor and mount and fell, and by many a brown and lonesome tarn, the boys wandered. They cared not either to fish or to collect specimens. Amidst such scenery and surroundings, in the glad sunshine and bracing air, to live was sufficient happiness.

I cannot say they had any wild adventures worth the name. They saw many huge heather snakes curled up in the sunshine asleep, but passed them by.

Once when on a moorland, they felt very hungry and there was no house near. But after walking a mile or two farther, a shepherd's hut hove in sight There was no one inside except the comely wife of the shepherd, who was away on the hills with his flocks.

But this woman was as kindly as comely, and regaled the lads with pea-meal bannocks and creamy milk. Willie averred it was the best meal ever he sat down to. Nor would the good lady accept even sixpence for her hospitality.

They bade her good-bye.

"The nearest road," she said in Gaelic, "is across that grassy moor. It would save three miles, but it is swarming with adders. I advise you to go round."

But the saving of those three miles tempted the lads, and they took to the grassy moor. The patch altogether was barely two hundred yards across. The grass was longish, withered and dry, and they soon found to their dismay that it literally swarmed with vipers. It was the home of the viper, and the viper was at home. They heard them in their hundreds rustling about, and they saw them too. But the lads would not show the white feather. To walk across, however, would have increased the danger. So they took to their heels and ran, as barefooted boys do when passing across a field of low white clover, with bees in thousands on it. The bees haven't time to sting, and in this case the vipers hadn't time to bite even if trampled on.

"That's a sweater!" said Willie, when they landed safe on bare ground.

"I'll go round by the road next time," said Creggan laughing.

However, all is well that ends well, so they went on their way rejoicing.

It wasn't the first time that Creggan, young though he was, had made a walking tour in Skye, so he made an excellent guide for his friend.

Near to the wildest scenery of Scavaig, Coruisk, and the Cuchullin mountains, they lived for a day or two at a hotel that was palatial. Almost too much so, indeed, for simple Creggan's taste. He was not accustomed to carpeted rooms and silver forks, so he told Willie. He was at home in a moorland, he said, but not among lords and ladies dressed in silk and satin.

But Willie only laughed, and did all he could to put him to rights, and to teach him the manners and customs of polite society, both at table and in the drawing-room.

However, Creggan sighed like a steam-engine—a sigh of relief, however,—when he found himself once more in the cosy parlour of an old-fashioned glen inn.

"This is true pleasure, Willie," he said.

"Well," answered Willie, "I'm not shy, you know. I am as much at home in an old farmer's house as in a nobleman's drawing-room. Always keep cool, Creggan. Don't imagine people are staring at you in particular, and if ladies in society say pretty things to you or praise you up, don't get hysterical, for they never mean it."

Creggan laughed.

"Sometimes," continued Willie, "I am asked to sing or recite. By people who don't know me, I mean. They say, 'Now, Master Nugent, I'm sure you can favour us with a song, or a recitation'. 'Most certainly', I reply, and do both; but as I sing like a crow and recite like a hen that has just dropped an egg, they never ask me twice."

* * * * * * * * * * *

There were just one or two little things that marred the pleasure of this wild and delightful tour. They were indeed little, but very wicked. First there were the midges. Among the bushes or in a garden in the glens, there is no going out of doors of an evening without muslin over one's face. If one neglects this, the face will be bitten all over, till it resembles badly pickled cabbage.

Then the gnats or mosquitoes are very venomous. Centipeds abound in some parts, great healthy greenish-brown brutes, and if they bite you in a tender part, it is nearly as bad as a snap from an adder. In the dark you may see these fellows hurrying through the short grass like miniature railway-trains, all aglow with a phosphorescence that streams out from both sides of them. Centipeds are nasty persons and have more legs than they know what to do with.

Away up on the moorlands, however, you don't find these things; only daddy-long-legs in millions in August. They are so tame that they are troublesome. Their favourite seat is a-straddle of one's nose.

"Give us a ride old chap," they seem to say. "I'm going the same way as you."

I believe myself that the best plan is to leave the duddy on your nose, though I confess it looks funny; but, as certain as sunrise, if you knock one off another gets on. So what are you to do?

Well, at long last the two young tourists, somewhat dusty and tired, and sadly in need of clean collars, bore round to Portree.

Here they rested one night.

Portree is a nice little town, and the people are kind and obliging. But there is a herring there, and you can scent him, either in boats or reclining in a frying-pan, wherever you go.

I forget how many miles it is from Portree round the northern portion of the island to Duntulm Castle. Perhaps thirty. The boys hired a boat to take them round, and a more delightful row or grander rock-and-mountain scenery it would indeed be difficult to conceive.

Willie wondered to see the tartan rocks, but he wondered still more to see a waterfall shoot right over a cliff many hundreds of feet in height, so that you could have sailed a boat between the rock and the linn, and hardly get wet even with the spray.

There are no such sunsets anywhere in Britain as there are in Skye. This evening the sun went down in a glory of crimson, gray, and orange, which it is impossible to describe.

* * * * * * * * * * *

Matty could not have been more rejoiced to see Creggan had he been away for a year.

"Oh, I is glad you've comed!" she cried, jumping on his knee with childish abandon.

Then in the starlight, Creggan launched his skiff and rowed swiftly away across a heaving waveless sea, to where the beacon burned afar on his own little island home of Kilmara.

"Well, sir, you see it is nine now, and the hills haven't taken their night-caps[1] off yet. That is one thing. Then the sea is a bit lumpy, and every now and then comes a puff, making big cat's-paws on it."

[1] The morning mist on the mountain-tops is so called.

"Well, lad, I start in two days' time for the tame, domestic south of England, so if you are willing I'll venture."

"Oh," answered Creggan flushing a little, "I'm ready, sir, aye ready!"

"Bravo!"

Willie and his mother were off to Portree, so poor Matty would have a lonesome day with only the servants to amuse her. The journey would have been too much for Matty at any rate. After a second breakfast at eleven o'clock they started. One, by the by, can always eat two breakfasts in Skye, just as I do while travelling in my caravan, "The Wanderer".

Oscar went with them of course. Oscar went everywhere. And so much did Creggan love the dog, that his heart beat high and the tears sprang to his eyes when he thought that in about six months' time they would have to part.

And who can blame one for loving a dog?

Right happy were Mr. Nugent and Creggan as they set out over the moor towards the mountains that forenoon, while Oscar ran on in front barking for joy, sometimes starting a bird, and actually pretending to jump after it into the sky.

"If I only had bits of wings," he appeared to say, "I'd soon catch that quack-quacking old duck."

The hills had by this time thrown off their nightcaps and were fully awake, but the wind seemed on the increase, blowing in uncertain squalls, then dying away again into a calm. This is always an ugly sign. Besides, there was a nasty bank of "sugar-loaf clouds", as Creggan called them, rising slowly in the west. Nor did Creggan like the appearance of them, and said so to Mr. Nugent.

"Never meet troubles half-way, my lad," was the answer. "For troubles, you know, are never quite so bad when they do come as we imagined they would be. The cloud approaching the moon is black and dark, but lo! when it gets in front the light shines through."

"Well, sir," said Creggan, "I shall always try to think of that, but I myself do not mind storms. I was thinking of lonely Matty's father if we get lost."

* * * * * * * * * * *

Creggan had a botanical case slung over his shoulder and Nugent a much larger one. This latter contained the luncheon.

They collected a large number of specimens on an upland moor they reached about one o'clock. Many of these were well-known to the boy, but he could only give Gaelic and English names to them.

Now, in a mountainous or Alpine region like that of Skye, however high you climb it seems there are still higher hills ahead of you. By three o'clock Creggan suggested that they should not go farther.

It was good advice, for the sea-damp wind from the west was increasing every minute, while away to the east the moisture had already condensed against the cold sides of the lofty hills, and here the wind was blowing high, sweeping before it a genuine Scotch mist.

Very few people in England have any idea what a real Scotch mist means. Some think it is a fog, some a drizzle. It is neither. It is rain broken up into mist by the violence of the wind, and driven along the sides of the hills or valleys in intermittent clouds. It is searching, bitter, miserable, and will not only wet an Englishman to the skin in five minutes, but will penetrate even the plaid of a Scot.

They now sat down to luncheon. It was a very sumptuous one, for Nugent was nothing if not a good and generous eater. As he discussed his meal he talked away right merrily, and told Creggan scores of humorous and other anecdotes of colonial life and adventure. So delightful were these that Creggan said he longed to be there.

"If," he continued, "I could only take poor Oscar."

"Look here, my boy; Oscar is young, isn't he?"

"Only two, sir."

"And you love him?"

"Very, very much."

"Well, I have a deal more influence than I care to boast about. So, after you have passed through the Britannia, if you are appointed to a small ship, as you most likely will be, I'll see to it that Oscar and you shall not be parted."

Creggan's joy was so great that for a few moments he dared not trust himself to speak.

"Oh, thank you, thank you, sir!" he said at last; and then Oscar had an extra hug, for a load had been lifted off his master's mind.

While talking thus they did not observe a bank of rolling fog creeping gradually up the hillside.

Creggan saw the danger first and sprung to his feet.

"We must hurry, sir; it is a fearful thing to be lost in the mist all among the lonely mountains.

"If we hurry, though," he added, "I think we can reach old Donald Clearach's cottage before the mist gets near us."

All sail was now made downwards and homewards. But this meant meeting the mist!

In less than an hour, and while only a mile from the shepherd's hut, they were enveloped in so dense a fog that even Oscar was puzzled. Donald's hut stood on a bit of moorland, that, though far above the level of the sea, afforded excellent pasture for the sheep he tended.

Well, it is far more confusing to walk in a fog like this than in the dark of the darkest night, for one speedily loses his bearings, and owing to the muscles of the right side of the body being stronger than those of the left, the person who is lost usually walks round in a circle.

"What's to be done, boy?" said Nugent uneasily.

"Nothing, sir, but wrap our plaids about us and wait. Even Oscar could not guide us now."

Mr. Nugent smiled faintly, lit his pipe, and sat down.

The wind now began to get higher and higher, but it had no visible effect upon the fog.

The time went on and on, oh! so slowly, although Nugent continued to talk and tell of far-off lands beyond the seas.

Six o'clock, seven, eight o'clock, came and passed. But still no change. Creggan had a splendid plaid, and his companion a stout coat of frieze, but the wet, cold mist that went curling round their necks made them shiver and shudder.

"Is it not possible to proceed, lad?"

"No sir; we are on level ground now, you see, and we should only go round and round and further astray. We might fall into a wild-duck pond and get drowned. Even if we were on a hillside, though we could descend, we might go astray and tumble over a precipice."

"You speak like an old man—wisely," said Mr. Nugent. "Well, anyhow we can have supper. That will warm us."

By the time they had finished it was dark.

The darkness soon grew dismal. Not a star would shine to-night, except far away beyond the clouds. It was pleasant, though, to think and know that the stars and moon were there.

Both now remained silent for a very long time. Their faculties were quite benumbed with the cold.

Then Nugent lay back.

"Are you going to sleep, sir?"

"Yes, just forty winks."

"No, no, no! I cannot let you, for many and many a man lost on the moors as we now are has been found stark and stiff when the mist cleared away, just because of falling asleep."

His companion, now thoroughly aroused to a true sense of his danger, tried to pull himself together. He even tried to tell more stories, but his teeth were chattering in his head, and his lips were all but frozen. He could not.

Soon after there was a wild blood-curdling eldritch yell heard, that startled both.

"Heavens! what is it?" cried Nugent.

Something dark rushed past next moment at their very feet. It was a wild cat, and Oscar jumped up to pursue it, but Creggan quickly caught him by the collar.

"No, Oscar, no. I might never see you more, and you're going to sea with me, you know."

Another long dreary hour passed, perhaps two. Both were now resigned to their fate. They must spend the night on the moor.

Even Creggan himself began to nod.

Suddenly Oscar sprang up and uttered a short defiant or challenging bark.

And lo! not far off, a light appeared glimmering hazily through the dismal fog, and a spectre-like figure, so magnified by the mist that it seemed to reach from earth to heaven, slowly approached.

"Is it that there is any-pody here at all at all whatefer?"

Once more Oscar barked, but it was with a ring of joy and pleasure.

"Oh, Donald, is that yourself?"

"To be surely, boy, to be surely; and is it you, my dear lad Creggan?"

"Oh, I am so glad you've come! This is my friend Mr. Nugent, and we're lost, you know."

"Well, well, well, but it isn't long lost you'll be whatefer. Sure I know the sheepies' tracks, and can guide you safely to my hut.

"Ay," he continued, "and it's as dead as braxie you'd have been 'fore mornin' if I hadn't been out lookin' for a sheepie."

How gladly they followed him need not be told, and how delighted they were to find themselves seated once more in front of a fire of wood and peats.

Donald hastened to make supper—oatmeal porridge and milk. Though eaten from caups[2] and with horn spoons, Nugent told the old shepherd that he had never supped more sumptuously in his life.

[2] Round, strong, wooden bowls.

Then Donald himself sat down, and while the two collies fraternized in a corner, the men folks had a long and enjoyable conversation.

Donald next made "shake-downs", or heather beds, for both, and they slept as sound as babies.

Early astir they were, however, and after more porridge and milk Nugent thanked the shepherd—solidly, and away they went down the hill with poor Donald's blessing ringing in their ears.

It was a bright and beautiful morning, with ne'er a cloud in all the sky.

What a relief for poor Mrs. Nugent when they entered the bungalow! And innocent wee Matty must jump up into Creggan's arms and cry for joy.

"Boy," he said, "never be ashamed to shed an honest tear. It is nature's way of showing that the heart is in the right place. As to partings, they are always sad, and one of the joys of heaven will rest on the fact that there won't be any more partings. You mind what the hymn says:[1]

"'A few short years of evil past,
    We reach the happy shore,
Where death-divided friends at last
    Shall meet to part no more'.

[1] 1 Thessalonians, iv. 13 to the end.

"But come on, Creggan, and have dinner, I've something very nice, and then I'll tell you stories. Ah, we'll all be happy yet!"

But Creggan had another sad grief to face that evening.

It will be remembered that Nugent had not only promised to get him a cadetship for the Royal Navy—if he could pass the examinations,—but, if appointed to a small ship, work the oracle so that he might take poor Oscar with him.

Well, as the boy and his foster-father sat by the fire with the collie between:

"I'm so pleased you're going to the service, lad," the hermit said. "Oh, there's nothing like a life on the ocean wave, and I've sailed the seas so long that dearly do I love it. I'm gladder still to think that from the pile I made at the gold-diggings and pearl fisheries, I can make you a comfortable allowance. Bah! what is the dross to me, and it will be all yours when I am gone."

"Oh, don't talk of death, Daddy; though you are gray you are not old."

"Well, no, I cannot as yet give myself airs about my age, but I'm wearing on. But to business, lad. The examination is a stiff one."

"Yes, Daddy. But won't I study just; and I'm sure I'll pass even in history, though I hate it. I'll read up like fun."

"There won't be much fun in it. But I'll coach you in French anyhow. You are right as to age for eight months to come. Well, of course your old Daddy will get your outfit. And as they give no pay to cadets in the Britannia, but demand £75 a year, I'll make it £85."

"Oh, thanks, dear Daddy!"

"Fain would I go south with you, but I shall not leave my island for some time yet. Don't imagine I am going to be downright unhappy,—because I sha'n't be. Your friend Archie M'Laren will bring me all I want off from the shore. Fishermen will often visit me, and your minister M'Ian. Then I shall have my fiddle, and, last but not least, our dear doggie here. We'll both miss you, but I shall think of you every time I gaze into his loving eyes."

If a bomb-shell had suddenly burst over the hut it would have had a far less stunning effect upon poor Creggan than the hermit's last words. Would he, after all, have to go away without his doggie? Had he looked at Oscar for even a moment, he would have burst out crying like a girl.

He just gazed into the fire for a few minutes in silence, then rose.

"I'll be back in a very short time, Daddy," he said. "And shall I light the beacon?"

"Do, like a good lad."

Creggan went out into the clear and starry summer's night.

A great round moon had just arisen, and was casting a broad triangular light across the sea, the apex down there close to the island, its base on the far-off horizon. How calmly it shone! It seemed a holy light. But neither moon nor the bright silvery stars could soothe our young hero then.

He lit the beacon almost automatically and afterwards paced up and down for five minutes or over, then stood by the beacon resolved and firm.

A brave boy now—a hero, indeed!

"I'll do it," he said half-aloud. "Oh, how I should like to take my Oscar with me, but I shall not, cannot! I'll suffer myself rather than let dear kind Daddy suffer."

He felt easier now and happier, and returned smiling to the hut; and the hermit played and sang for an hour at least.

There was a kind of incubus at Creggan's heart when he awoke next morning, and for a time he could not quite make out what it meant. Then all at once he remembered his doggie. The recollection came so suddenly back to him that at first he was nearly crying. But he jumped out of bed, and lightly dressing went down the cliffs with Oscar to enjoy his morning swim.

Then back to breakfast.

Well, you know, reader, "sorrow may endure for a night but joy cometh in the morning".

It did. For that very forenoon a humble friend of Creggan's—Archie—came off in a shore-boat, bringing a long letter for the hermit, and a childish but loving scrawl from Matty to Creggan. He put that carefully away, and determined to take it to sea with him.

He certainly was a romantic boy, and this is not to be wondered at seeing the wild life he led, the wild scenery around him, and the voice of the sounding sea ever changing and ever telling him something new.

As soon as the hermit had read the letter he jumped up and took Creggan's hand.

"This is from Nugent, dear sonny, and he is going to get leave to let you have Oscar with you."

"No, no, no, no!" cried the boy. "He must stay with you and make you happy."

"And I say 'no, no, no!'" replied the hermit, laughing now. "Go he shall; I have my bird, my cat, and my violin. Oh, believe me, boy, I shall be happy enough till you come back to see me."

And so it was decided.

Archie was but a crofter's son, but he was a particular friend of Creggan's, and they used to be constantly together before the Nugents came, fishing, shooting, or wandering over the hills and far away.

Archie thought that Creggan was very clever, and laughed inordinately at all the stories he made up and told him while they lay together on the cliff-top, where the wild thyme grew. It was here they used to meet, and Archie always brought his dambrod (draughts) with him. He had made it himself, and together in the sunshine they used to play for hours and hours. They had no real men, only bits of carrots and parsnips to represent the black and the white, and as Archie was a far better player than Creggan, he always removed a few men from his own side before the game began.

But Archie could play chess as well, and always solved the problems given in the weekly papers, which the minister kindly lent him. Creggan had no patience with so deep a game. Life, he appeared to think, was too short for chess. Well, so far I believe he was right, for in studying for an exam. one wastes brain power by playing so difficult a game.

Poor Archie was just a year or two older than Creggan, but over and over again, as they used to lie together on the wild-thyme cliff, he would say with all the ingenuousness and frankness of youth:

"Oh, Creggan, you don't know how much I love you, and I'll just cry my heart out when you go away."

Ay, and there wouldn't be a hut in which there would be no sorrow, when our young hero went to sea.

By the way, I may mention just one thing to prove the genuineness of the old hermit's kindness.

Archie had a brother called Rory, a tall yellow-haired sturdy young fellow, but somewhat of a doll. The father was dead, the two boys tilled the small croft and tended the cows; but somehow Rory took it into his head to enlist. Some recruiters came marching through the parish with kilts and plumes and ribbons fluttering in the wind, and they marched off with Rory and some other young fellows too.

Well, that same evening Archie met Creggan near the manse.

His eyelashes were wet with tears.

"Oh, man!" he cried, "what will we do? Rory has gone off with the soldiers. Oh, come and see poor mother!"

Creggan went at once, and entered the hut. Such grief he had never witnessed before. Among the ashes by the fireside, with little on save a petticoat, sat Rory's distracted mother, her gray hair hanging dishevelled over her shoulders, and her body swaying to and fro constantly in the agony of her sorrow. She was mourning in the Gaelic.

"Oh, my son, my son! Oh, Rory, Rory, love of my heart, my Rory! Oh, heaven look down and help me! Rory, Rory, will I never never see you more!"

Her face was wet with tears and covered with ashes.

She was still sitting there when Creggan left at eight o'clock, still swaying her body, still mourning, mourning, and mourning.

And when Creggan returned early next day there was no change.

There she sat, as she had sat all night long, among the ashes, still swaying to and fro, still plaintively calling for Rory.

"Love of my heart, my Rory, will you never, never come again?"

Ah, but Creggan had glorious news for her. "Cheer up, dear mother," he said, showing her shining gold, "I am going to Portree to bring your Rory back."

And Creggan, with the hermit's money, did buy the foolish lad off, and Rory never left his mother more until she was laid in the quiet churchyard beside the blue and rolling Minch.

"WELL, MY LAD, YOU'RE ONE OF THE 'RATTLER'S' MIDDIES, AREN'T YOU?"
"WELL, MY LAD, YOU'RE ONE OF THE 'RATTLER'S' MIDDIES, AREN'T YOU?"

Now, if a real flogging[1] or "flaying match" had to be played, and a man—guilty of some great crime—was stripped to the waist and tied to the rigging to receive four dozen with the cat, not only the doctor, in cocked hat and lashed to his sword, but all the officers and crew as well would have to be piped up to witness this fearful punishment. But it was no part of the surgeon's duty to attend a boy's birching. That indeed would have been infra dig. So, on this occasion the surgeon simply gave Flint a haughty stare, then continued his conversation.

[1] Flogging is now done away with in our Navy.

"Why, this is insubordination, sir! I've a good mind to put you under arrest."

Then, as the bo's'n's mate expressed it, "the doctor's dander riz". But he kept his temper.

"Captain Flint," he said, "you can put me under arrest if you please, but I shall not lower the dignity of a profession which is as honourable as yours by attending a boy's rope's-ending."

The commander stamped and paused.

"I'll—I'll—" he began.

"Now, now, now," cried the surgeon, "you'll have a fit! I warn you, sir. You're short-necked, sir, and excitable, and if—"

He got no further.

"Confound you, sir, I'll pay you out for this!"

Then he rushed below.

But there was nothing done about it. Flint simply nursed his wrath to keep it warm.

One day, some time after this, the ship grounded on a sand-bank. Luckily it was at low tide, so when the tide began to rise, all hands, even the officers, had orders from the commander to arm themselves each with a 56-lb. shot, and rush fore and aft, and aft and fore, in a body to help to swing the ship off.

But Grant stood quietly by the binnacle.

"Did you hear the order, sir?" roared the commander. "Get your shot and join the crew."

"Na, na, na," answered Grant, in his native Doric. "Man, I've gotten a laddie's back to see till, and a poultice to mak. Jist tak' a shot yoursel', man."

On this occasion the captain had to smile.

But the war culminated about a month after this, and on that occasion, it must be confessed, the doctor did lose his temper, and had the captain been able to get witnesses he could have tried the surgeon by court-martial, for Grant's conduct amounted almost to mutiny, albeit the provocation he received was very great.

You cannot insult a Scot more than by attempting to throw mud at his country.

Well, while anchored near a village the officers generally went on shore in mufti, and Grant was in the habit of wearing a Scotch Glengarry bonnet (called a cap by the English).

Now it occurred to the commander that he might give the surgeon a knock-down over this. So he called the assistant paymaster, and ordered him to write what is called "a memo.", which is really a tyrannical edict, which all the officers, however, must sign.

Flint dictated the memo., and when presented to him for inspection, it read as follows:—

MEMO.

It is my directions that the officers of this ship shall go on shore dressed as gentlemen.

This would have been insult enough to poor Grant, but the skipper added to it greatly, for between the words as and gentlemen he wrote the word English, making the memo, read as English gentlemen.

The doctor was writing in his cabin, between which and the commander's saloon there was only a single bulkhead. He was the last officer to be asked to sign the memo.

When he read it, then indeed his "dander riz".

His fury was fearful to behold, and the commander could hear all that was said.

Grant sprang to his feet.

"This from Flint!" he roared; "and he dares ask me to sign it! Is not a Scotch gentleman as good as an English gentleman any day? See here, Maxwell, I tear it in pieces, and fling them on the deck. Take it back to him thus if you choose, but he shall not insult my native land!"

At this moment the commander was heard shouting:

"Quartermaster!"

"Ay, ay, sir."

"Send Dr. Grant to my cabin at once."

Grant required no two biddings. He rushed up the ward-room companion and thundered down the captain's stair, while officers, quartermaster, and all rushed forward, determined not to be witnesses to anything that might happen.

Perhaps never on board a man-o'-war before did such a scene take place in a commander's cabin.

Grant had picked up a handful of the torn-up memo., and quickly now drawing back Flint's curtain he stood like an angry bull in the doorway.

The skipper started to his feet. He had been sitting in his easy-chair.

"Sir—" he began.

But he got no further.

"You sent this memo. to me? There! I fling it at your feet. I ought to fling it into your white and frightened face. How dare you insult my country, sir? You little tippling whipper-snapper!"

"This is rank mutiny!" cried the skipper. "I'll call the first lieutenant and quartermaster."

"You may call till you are hoarse, and they will not come to witness against me. Even your boy has fled, and now I'll speak my mind."

Here the commander attempted to run the blockade and force his way out.

"Stand back, sir," cried Grant, "or worse will happen!"

"Now, sir, listen to me. I have stood your tyranny long enough and as calmly as I could, and now it is my turn, and I tell you plainly that whenever and wherever I find you on shore in plain clothes, I'll give you such a thrashing that you won't forget it the longest day you live. Good-morning."

This ended the scene.

Some captains would have shot Grant where he stood. But Flint was terror-stricken and silent.

He was on deck again half an hour afterwards, looking as if nothing had happened.

Next evening the steward came in to say, with Captain Flint's compliments, that he wished Dr. Grant to come and share a bottle of wine with him.

"Tell the captain, with my compliments, that I refuse."

That was the answer.