CHAPTER XV.

A DANGEROUS ADVENTURE.

"What is the matter with you?" said the Whaup to Coquette. "For a few minutes you are alive, and in the world; and the next minute you are staring over there at the sea, as if you could look through the Arran hills, and find something miles and miles away on the other side.".

Coquette started, and recalled herself; but there was no tinge of embarrassment on the pale, clear, foreign face. She said—

"I was thinking whether your papa would let us go with Lady Drum."

"Then he has not promised to go?" said the Whaup sharply.

The dark eyes of Coquette began to look afraid.

"It is a strange thing," said the Whaup, "that women will not tell you all the truth at once. They must keep back things, and make mysteries, and try to deceive you. Why didn't you say to me—'There is a talk of our going a trip in Earlshope's yacht. Will you come, if we are allowed to go?'—instead of hinting that you were all fixed on going, and I might as well join you? Well, there, I am not going to say another word. You can't help it. You are only a woman."

"And you are only a boy," she said, looking up to the tall, handsome lad beside her,—"very kind, and very generous, and very stupid."

"I am older than you, at least," said the Whaup, who did not like being called a boy. "And, if it was any use, I'd give you the advice to drop these little tricks, and be honest."

"If my honesty were equal to your rudeness, I should please you," said Coquette, with a smile. She was disinclined just then to take umbrage.

"It will be a bold thing for my father to go away anywhere in the company of Lord Earlshope," observed the Whaup. "It will be only his regard for your health that will force him."

"Why?" said Coquette, with a touch of asperity.

"Well, you know the reputation he has in the parish," remarked the Whaup, coolly. "Perhaps everybody is wrong; but, at all events, Earlshope gives them every reason to think ill of him. He never comes to church; he walks about on Sundays with his dogs; or else he reads novels, and smokes cigars. If I go with you, it is not to be friends with him; it is to protect you. Do you know, either he is mad or one of these novels has turned his head; for he has got a place built at the end of the grounds like a wizard's cave, with trickling water running over a lot of rocks; and he sits there at night to read, and in the rocks he has blue lights, that make the place look as if it was haunted."

"That is stuff and humbug," said Coquette.

"What did you say?"

"I do mean it is nonsense, if that is better. It is an old woman's story of the village—it is a fable—it is foolish."

"Very well, very well," said the Whaup. "But if you have the courage to slip out of the house to-night when it is dark, and run all the way there, I will take you in by an opening that I know, and show you the place."

"Suppose he were there?" said Coquette.

"No fear. The nights are getting too cold. Will you go?"

"Perhaps," said Coquette.

By this time they had arrived at the spot of the moor where the Whaup had discovered the bees' nest. He pointed out to his companion a small hole in a piece of mossy ground which was not covered by the heather; and as she looked at it, a large humble-bee came crawling out, paused for a second, and then flew away with a low buzzing noise into the distance. The Whaup threw off his jacket, and took his spade in hand.

"Here," said he to Coquette, "protect yourself with this branch. Knock them down when they come near you."

"Why?" she said. "They will not harm me—I am not harming them."

"That may be the case wi' bees in France," observed the Whaup, disdainfully, "where they've got fine manners; but ye'll find Scotch bees are different."

So he ordered one of the boys to stand by Coquette and beat down any bees that might come her way; threatening him with pains and penalties dire if one should touch her. Then he struck the spade into the ground near the entrance to the nest, and raised a large "divot." The channel to the subterranean caves was now laid bare; and one or two bees that had been coming up were seen extricating themselves from the loose earth. These Dougal straightway laid hold of, by means of his handkerchief, and popped them into a large paper bag which he held.

"What for you put them in a bag?" said Coquette; at which all the boys burst out laughing. But they did not tell her the secret.

The excitement of this work of destruction now began. Out came the bees in dozens, buzzing up from the ruddy earth only to be struck down by great branches of alder borne by the boys; while the intrepid Dougal, with his face and hands quite unguarded, stood over the hole, and picked up whichever of them looked only stunned. It was a dangerous occupation; for those inside the bag which had partially recovered began to hum their discontent, and tried to escape by the small opening which admitted their companions in misfortune. Sometimes, indeed, the other boys assisted, although they had sufficient occupation for themselves in beating back the winged host that flew round and round their ears.

Suddenly Wattie uttered a loud shriek, and set off running as hard as he could. His companions perceived to their dismay that about twenty or thirty bees had clustered round his head, and were now following him, and hovering over him as he ran.

"He's got the queen bee on his bonnet," said the Whaup. "Throw down your bonnet—ye idiot!—throw down your bonnet!"

Wattie was still within hearing, and had sufficient nerve left him to do as he was bid. He snatched at his cap, pitched it on the heather, and again made off; but it was soon apparent that he was out of danger. The bees had lit upon the cap; and from a safe distance he stood and regarded it with rather a rueful countenance.

The issue of bees had ceased. The boys laid down their branches, and began to dig out with their fingers, from among the red and sandy earth, the small brown combs of honey, which were speedily transferred, sand and all, to their mouth. The Whaup, of course, would not condescend to such vulgar and childish practices; but he produced a pen-knife, and extracted some honey from one of the combs, which Coquette was pleased to taste.

"What for you have bees in the bag?" said Coquette, as they prepared to go home—a simultaneous charge of branches having cleared Wattie's cap.

"I told you," said the Whaup, "there was a deed of vengeance to be done. In the stable there is a bag of corn, which Andrew opens twice a day to get some for the pony. We are going to put the bees in the bag—I suppose there's near a hundred of them. When Andrew plunges his hand into the bag——"

"O you wicked boy!" cried Coquette.

"You are the cause of it," said the Whaup.

"I?"

"I heard him calling ye all sorts o' names out of the Bible—Satan quoting Scripture, you see—and I have warned him before; and now he'll get it."

"The bees, they will kill him," said Coquette.

"So much the better," retorted the Whaup; "he is a nuisance."

"But what is that on your hand—that is a sting, is it not?" she said, looking at a considerable swelling, which was visible on the Whaup's forefinger.

"Oh, one sting is nothing," he said, carelessly, "unless it's a wasp or a hornet. Did you ever burn out a nest of hornets? If you haven't, don't try."

"No," said Coquette, simply, "I'm not such a gowk."

"Well, that is pretty English!" observed the Whaup, with a stare.

"Isn't it right? I did hear you say it yesterday," remarked Coquette, without any notion that she was turning the tables on her critic.

So they drew near home again; and the Whaup fancied a shade came over his companion's face as they approached the Manse. Perhaps it was the dull, grey day, which made the old-fashioned little place look dull and solitary—that made the moor look unusually bleak, and the long stretch of country sombre and sad.

"I hope you are not tired," said the Whaup.

"Tired? No," she said, with a certain languor. "Do you think your papa will take us away from here for a little while?"

"How you harp on that yacht!" rejoined the Whaup, good-naturedly. "I must go and persuade my father on your behalf, I think."

"Will you do that?" she said, with eagerness.

"Yes," he said, "and just now. Isn't he there in the garden? I hear him talking. Oh, it is the Schoolmaster, who is delivering a lecture. Now, I will wager he is talking about you."

"About me?"

"Yes; don't you know you are a dangerous character to the whole village?"

"I should like to know what he says about me," said Coquette, proudly, advancing towards the wall which surrounded the garden.

"But not that way," said the Whaup, taking her hand and leading her off. "If you wish to know, you mustn't hide and listen—although I suppose that is a woman's way. You go into the Manse—I will go into the garden and bring you word what the new ground of complaint is."

Leaving Coquette, therefore, the Whaup went round the house, and boldly walked up to the place where Mr. Gillespie and the Minister stood together.

"It is Earlshope who is catching it this time," said the Whaup to himself, overhearing the name.

His father looked with some surprise on the approach of his eldest son—who had rather a pugnacious look on his face, by the way; but the Schoolmaster was too intent upon his choice phrases to heed.

"... than which, sir, nothing could be more deplorable, or mortifying, as I may say," observed Mr. Gillespie. "But I would give every man the due of his actions; for, although works are not in themselves saving, they may be a sign—or, as some would term it, a symptom—of the presence o' grace, even among the Gentiles who know not the law, yet do the things that are written or inscribed in the law."

"Yes, yes, Mr. Gillespie!" said the Minister, with an impatient twitch at his bunch of seals: "but ye said ye had come to tell me——"

"Yes, sir, to inform ye of a circumstance which deserves, or is entitled to, some remark. I have been made the means—or, I may say, the humble instrument—of conveying to the people of this parish no less a sum than one hundred pounds sterling, to be expended, sir, as those who have authority among us may direct, for the good—or benefit—of such as are—such as are—such as are, in fact, here. Ware it—or as I ought to say—expend it as we best may on the educational or worldly wants of the parish, it is all the same; and while I would observe, sir, that the money cannot heighten in value the services which you give—or rather render to this parish—it being your duty, as I may express it, to expound the prophecies and dig up spiritual gold and silver for them that are of Zion, I would take your advice wi' all humility as to how this sum is to be granted to, or bestowed upon, the parish."

Mr. Gillespie paused, with the air of a man who had been up to the occasion. He raised his large spectacles towards the Minister's face, and proudly awaited the reply.

"Where got ye this money?" said the Minister.

"Sir, from Lord Earlshope—some three days ago, with a letter dated from some place in the north, in which his lordship was pleased to say that it was but a whim of his. A noble and a praiseworthy whim, said I to Mrs. Gillespie, on receiving the money, for his lordship, according to general report, or, as I might say, rumour, is a poor man for one in his station; and as I would argue from facts, Mr. Cassilis, rather than from idle hearsay, I am bold to observe that there are in this very parish those who would look black at his Lordship, and yet no bestow a bawbee on the relief o' the poor. I wouldna, sir, cast—or, in other words, fling—the first stone; and if some would do as they see Lord Earlshope do, I am thinking, sir, they would not—they would not do—as—as, in fact, they do do."

Feeling that his eloquence was beginning to halt, the Schoolmaster pulled out the identical letter and cheque which had effected so extraordinary a change in his sentiments towards the owner of Earlshope. These he handed to Mr. Cassilis, who took them and scanned them with equal surprise and pleasure. The Minister even hinted that since his lordship was so well-disposed to the parish, and apparently inclined to make up for past forgetfulness, it would be unbecoming of the parish not to meet his advances in a similar friendly spirit.

"Precisely and exactly as I observed to Mrs. Gillespie this morning, sir, not ten minutes—nay, when I recollect, not above five minutes—indeed, I am sure three minutes could not have elapsed—after the reading of the letter, or communication I might call it, seeing what it holds. And Mrs. Gillespie, sir, made an observation couched in homely phrase—yet pertaining, or, as I might say, bearing upon this point. She remarked that the test of a man's fair words was when he put his hand in his pocket."

"It is sometimes so," said the Minister; adding, with a sly glance at the Schoolmaster, "perhaps, after all, Mr. Gillespie, when my parishioners hear of Lord Earlshope's generosity, they will not wonder at my receiving him at the Manse, nor yet will they object to his speaking to my niece."

The Schoolmaster looked rather uncomfortable; and the Whaup, behind his back, performed some derisive and delighted antics of a vulgar nature.

"I maun e'en take a man as I find him, Mr. Cassilis," said the Schoolmaster, forgetting his English in the warmth of his self-defence. "If he alters for the better, what for should I stick to my old opinion, like a flee to the wa'?"

"Certainly, certainly," said the Minister; "but sometimes it is our judgment that is mistaken in the first case, and it behoves us to be cautious and charitable."

"No man ever accused me o' being without charity, in moderation—in moderation," said the Schoolmaster, with his spectacles glaring fiercely. "But I am no for that charity that lets ye be led by the nose. I have my own opeenions—charity is a good thing—a very good thing—but it needna make a fool o' ye, and make people believe that ye are as blind as Eli. No, sir, wi' due deference to you, I still consider Lord Earlshope to be——"

In his excitement the Schoolmaster had unconsciously unfolded the cheque he held in his hands; and he now suddenly found himself looking at it. He did not finish the sentence. He waved his hand, as though to say—"These are bygones; I was right, but it is no matter; and Lord Earlshope has mended."

"And what do ye propose to do with the money?—not that there will be any difficulty in finding suitable directions," said the Minister.

"That," replied the Schoolmaster, with grave importance, "is a matter for serious—and, I may add, patient—consideration, in which, sir, I would earnestly desire your assistance and advice. In the meantime, it is but fitting (such is my humble opeenion) that acknowledgment of his lordship's bounty should be made—and that not in a formal manner, but in a friendly—a conciliatory manner, as I may say, in which I will show his lordship that we of this parish recognise, appreciate, and commend these approaches—or overtures they might, I think, be properly called, on his part; and who knows, sir, but that encouragement of this kind might have the effect of stimulating or exciting his lordship to renew—I may say, in short, to repeat—these attentions of a generous nature——"

Mr. Gillespie stopped here, not sure whether he had got to the end of his sentence or not. He then continued—

"I hope, sir, in your capacity of private friend of the young nobleman, and as public and spiritual overseer of this parish, you will convey to him our sense of what he has done; and if you could bring him and the parish closer together——"

"At this present moment, on the contrary," said the Minister, with a hesitating smile, "Lord Earlshope proposes to carry me away from the parish. I have received an invite, with some members of my household, to go on a small voyage in his lordship's yacht, Lady Drum being the instigator of the project, as I believe."

The spectacles of the Schoolmaster seemed to wax bigger.

"How do you think the parish would receive the proposal?" asked the Minister, rather timidly.

"I will make it my business to ascertain," replied the Schoolmaster, with an air of authority. "Nay, further, Mr. Cassilis, I will even go the length of advising your parishioners to acquiesce. Why, sir, it is their duty. Lord Earlshope, Mr. Cassilis, is a man to be encouraged—he must be encouraged."

This was all that was wanted to confirm the Minister's decision. He had for some time back seen fit to abandon the suspicions that had been suggested by his meeting Lord Earlshope and Coquette on the moor; and the only question now was whether Coquette's health would be greatly benefited by his accepting the invitation.

The Whaup made off at this moment, and went to Coquette.

"You owe Gillespie a good turn for once," said he to her. "The old fool has persuaded my father to go."

CHAPTER XVI.

COQUETTE LEAVES AIRLIE.

How brightly shone the sun on the welcome morning of their departure!—when Coquette, as she looked out to catch a glimpse of the fair blue sea and the distant hills of Arran, could scarce take time to curb the wildness of her dark hair. Already the open window let her drink in the fresh morning breeze; she felt the warmth of the sun on her cheek. Generally, at her toilette, she sang careless snatches of French songs, or even endeavoured to imitate the Whaup's whistling of a Highland reel; but on this morning she was far too excited for any such amusements. The face that had been getting tired and wan of late was now flushed with happiness; and when at last she came running down-stairs, and out into the garden—her white dress fluttering in the sun, and her hair getting rather the better of the dark blue band interwoven with it—she fairly overwhelmed the boys with her demonstrations of affection and kindness.

The Whaup's brothers were practical young persons; and, though they still regarded this foreigner and Catholic as a dangerous companion—as somebody who had to be approached with caution—they had discovered, at an early period, that certain gold coins of French origin could be transformed at Ardrossan into an honest and respectable mintage. The amount of pocket-money which the reckless young woman lavished upon her cousins (excepting the Whaup, of course,) was appalling; nor could the observant Leezibeth make out whence came all the new pocket-knives, tools, and similar boyish luxuries which she discovered about the house. The boys themselves had an uneasy impression that there was something desperately wicked in having so much money; and, indeed, had many private conversations among themselves about the specious arguments with which they might cheat the devil if he happened to put in a claim for them, on account of extravagance.

"You must all be very good till I come back," she said, now, "for I am going to bring you all presents. I will buy you—what shall I buy you?"

The boys began to laugh, but rather in a disappointed way.

"There is but wan thing ye'll get to buy in the Hielands," said Dougal, "and that's herrin'."

"And too good for you," said the Whaup, coming up, "you greedy young pigs. If I hear you bargaining about presents any more I'll present ye with a bottle o' hazel oil, if ye ken what that is. Come along, Miss Coquette, and get your breakfast, and then show me what luggage you have. I dare say it's twice as big as I can allow."

"You allow? Are you the master of the luggage?"

"I am—as you'll find out," said he. "I have just taken half the pile of things that Leezibeth had packed up for my father and shunted them into a drawer. We don't mean to go to the Sandwich Islands."

"Do we go to the Sandwich Islands?" said Coquette, simply.

"I said we don't mean to go there," repeated the Whaup, with asperity; "but I suppose you don't know where that is—the French are so precious ignorant."

"Worse luck," said Coquette, with an expression of sincere penitence which made the Whaup burst out laughing.

At length, some two hours afterwards, Coquette found herself seated in the little dog-cart which had brought her to Airlie. A sour man was Andrew Bogue that day; and sourer was he now. Nor word nor syllable would he utter; and the more vivacious and talkative Coquette became—speaking to her uncle, who sat behind, the Whaup having been sent off on foot—the deeper and sterner became the gloom of his face. Perhaps he was none the less disposed to predict evil of this appalling departure from the sober and respectable routine of the Manse, because of a severe encounter he had had with Leezibeth that morning. He saw that Leezibeth had now gone wholly over to the enemy.

When they reached the harbour and saw the shapely vessel lying out at anchor, with her sails shining in the sun, they perceived that both the Whaup and Lady Drum had gone on board. Presently, the gig was put off from the yacht, and in a few minutes Coquette and her uncle were being pulled out by the four blue-jackets. Lord Earlshope was at the gangway to receive them.

"Why does he not wear a sailor's uniform?" said Coquette to Mr. Cassilis, as they drew near. "He does not seem to care about anything."

When they stepped on board—and Coquette had looked round with wonder on the whiteness of the deck, and the scrupulous neatness everywhere visible—Lady Drum came forward, and kissed her, and said,

"My dear child, I hope you know about yachts, for I don't, and I feel most uncomfortably in the way of everybody."

"Yes, I know a little," said Coquette.

"Why, all you have to do," said Lord Earlshope, coming forward, "is to sit in the cockpit there—an innovation I introduced for the very purpose of getting ladies out of the way during a race. You need have no fear of getting hit on the head by the boom, or of being washed overboard either; and if a wave should come over the stern——"

"I hope there will be nothing of the kind," said Lady Drum, looking indignantly out towards the sea.

The prospect there was sufficiently reassuring. There was a light breeze from the south-west which was just enough to ruffle the water and make it of a darker blue. Overhead the sky was clear and calm; and the peaks of Arran were faint and aerial in the mid-day mist. Everything promised a pleasant run up to Loch Fyne, if only the wind would last.

While the men were getting the vessel under weigh, Lord Earlshope's visitors went down below; and if Coquette had been pleased with the prettiness of the yacht above, she was now charmed with the decorations of the state-rooms and saloon. The transparent flowers painted on the skylights—the ornamentation and gilding of what she profanely called the walls—the innumerable little arrangements for comfort—all these were matter for praise; but the climax of her delight was found in a small harmonium which was placed in the saloon.

"I should have got a piano for you," said Lord Earlshope—making no secret of his having studied her pleasure in the matter—"but they don't stand the sea so well. Now, Lady Drum, will you take Miss Cassilis into your cabin; and when you have made yourselves thoroughly at home—and got out some wrappers for the sea breezes, you know—you will find luncheon awaiting you here. Mr. Cassilis, you will take a glass of sherry, won't you? You will always find it there. Mr. Tom, do you shoot?"

"I should think so!" said the Whaup, who had apparently forgotten his sentiments of antagonism to Lord Earlshope.

"I thought you would. You will find my breech-loader in your cabin; and the steward will give you cartridges if you ask him. Now I must go on deck."

"I never thought he had so much snap in him," said the Whaup familiarly to his father.

"So much what?" said the Minister, severely.

"Why, life—energy. I thought he was rather a muff—with his white fingers, and his lazy lounge and that. But he's not as bad a fellow as people say."

"Lord Earlshope would be pleased to know that you approve of him," said his father; but the Whaup lost the sarcasm, for he had already run up the companion, to see what was going on above. His father, following, found that the Whaup had clambered half-way up the ratlines, to get a view of the surrounding scenery as the yacht stood out to sea.

When, some little time thereafter, the steward's bell called upon Lady Drum and Coquette to come forth from their cabin, the latter was heard to say—

"Why don't we start, then? I do not like to remain in harbour."

But the moment she entered the saloon and saw the table slightly heeling over, she said—

"We are at sea?"

"Yes," said Lord Earlshope; "and missing a pretty part of the coast. So you ought to hasten your luncheon."

"But what is the matter with the table?" said Lady Drum, making an effort to put it at right angles to herself. Coquette screamed, and caught her hand.

"If you put it straight," said Lord Earlshope, laughing, "you will see everything fly to the ground." It was days, indeed, before Lady Drum could believe that this tumbling table was secure; and many a time she had to check herself from instinctively "putting it straight."

Pleasant, indeed, on that bright and quiet afternoon was their run up the broad channel between Bute and Arran. Far away the coast of Ayrshire, which they had left, became paler and more pale; while on before them successive bays opened out, with silent hills overlooking them, and here and there the white glimmer of a sea bird in their shadows. Down in the south, the mountains that rise from the lonely Loch Ranza had caught some clouds about their peaks, and were dark and sombre, as the mountains of Arran generally are; but all in front of them—the smooth slopes of Bute and Inch Marnoch, the craggy wonders of the Kyles, the still shores of Cowal and Cantire—lay steeped in a soft autumnal haze, with the rich colours of heather and fern only half glimmering through the silver veil. It was like a voyage into dreamland—so beautiful was the land and sea and sky around them—and so still.

Such was the manner of their setting out. And in the evening they drew near the little harbour of Tarbert; and all the west was aglow as if with fire. Even after they had dropped anchor, and the mountains of Cowal were black as night, there was a wan glare over the sky and out on the broad bosom of the loch. Then through the pallor of the twilight came the stars, growing and burning in the darkness, until Coquette thought they seemed just above the points of the tall masts. She still lingered on deck, when all the others had gone below. The sails were down, lights run up, and through the skylights of the saloon came a dull yellow glow, and a sound of voices which spoke of a comfortable and happy party beneath. Why was it that she was so sad? She had had her heart's wish; she was setting out on the longed-for excursion; yet here she was alone in the stern of the boat, looking up to the throbbing wonders of the heavens, or down into the starry plain of the sea, and feeling strangely isolated and miserable.

Lord Earlshope came in search of her.

"Why do you remain here alone?" he said.

"I do not know," said Coquette, rising wearily.

"They want you down below."

"I will go down; but it is very beautiful up here. I have never seen the stars so near. They seem to be almost touching the top of the hill there."

"You will have many opportunities of admiring the magical sunsets and the clear nights of these high latitudes. You may make the cruise as long as you please, you know."

"But you do not go with us?" she asked, with some little embarrassment.

"For a day or two, to give you a start. Unless I am found to be so useful that you all ask me to stay."

"Perhaps, then, you will come all the way with us?" said Coquette, somewhat too eagerly.

"Perhaps I may."

Coquette went down into the cabin then; and everybody was struck during the evening by her extreme amiability and cheerfulness. She quite won the heart of Lady Drum; who said that the effects of the sea air on the young lady were surprising and gratifying, and needed only to be supplemented by a little gentian.

CHAPTER XVII.

LOCHFYNE.

"It is Eden: it is the Garden of the Lord!" said the Minister; and the sad and sunken eyes that had grown dim over many books—that had grown weary, too, perhaps, with the bleakness of the upland moor—looked abroad over one of the fairest scenes in the world, and drank in the quiet and the dear sunshine of it. Far in front of him stretched the pale-blue plain of Lochfyne, that was as still, and smooth, and motionless as the pale-blue sky above. From this point of the Knapdale coast away up to the fork of Loch Gilp there was not a ripple on the calm surface; but over at the opposite shore a slight breeze was bearing up from the south, and there the blue of the water was intense and almost dark. Beyond this azure plain lay the brown and ruddy colours of the Cowal hills—soft and smooth in the mist of the heat; while along them moved great dashes of shadow thrown by the slowly-passing clouds above. Through the stillness of the sunshine they heard the soft whistle of the curlew; they saw the solan flap his heavy white wings far down towards Arran; they watched the solitary heron standing among the brown weeds out at the point of the shore—while now and again a sea-trout would leap a foot into the air, and fall with a splash again into the clear water. Then all around them, where they sat on the pebbly beach, was the drowsy warmth of the sun—glittering sharply on the birch and hazel bushes by the road—gleaming more softly on the great grey boulders—and dwelling mistily on the bushes, and heather, and rocks of the hill-side. And all this was so still that it scarcely seemed to be of this world; the murmur of a stream coming down through the trees—trickling coolly and unseen beneath the tall ferns—had a far and mournful sound, like the sound of distant music in a dream.

The silence was broken by Coquette trying to whistle "The Last Rose of Summer." Then she uttered a little cry of delight as she saw Lord Earlshope and Lady Drum coming along the road underneath the trees; and when at length they had drawn near and had come down to the shore, Coquette said—

"Please, Lady Drum, will you tell me why my uncle becomes sad when he sees a pretty day and a pretty place. The good weather does not cheer him——"

"It cheers you, at all events," said Lady Drum, with a kindly scrutiny of the girl's face. "It gives you a colour and a brightness that makes an old woman like me feel young again only to look at ye. How have you been employing yourself?"

"I? I have been trying to whistle as my cousin whistles, but I cannot do it like him, perhaps because I have no pockets. He never is able to whistle unless he puts his hands in his pockets, and looks careless, and stands so! Then I have watched the grey heron out at the rocks there, and I have been wishing he would get a fish."

"I have been wishing I had a gun," said the practical Whaup, with obvious discontent.

"And my uncle—he has been sitting and looking far away—looking tired, too, and weary—just as if he were still in church."

"Listening to one of my own sermons, I suppose?" said the Minister, taking his niece by the ear. "I hope I have not been oppressing you with my dulness?"

"Ah, no, no!" she said. "But I did not speak to you; you were thinking of old years gone away, were you not?"

The Minister looked at the girl: her eyes seemed to have divined what he was thinking of. But presently she turned to Lord Earlshope, and said—

"We go not to-day? We do not perhaps to-morrow either?"

"Why," said Lord Earlshope, with a smile, "you might turn your newest accomplishment to some use. Could you whistle a breeze to us? We are helpless, you see, until we get wind."

"I thought an English milord never wanted for anything that he did not get," she said, with a glance of grave surprise.

The Whaup began to think that his cousin was a deal too clever to be safe.

"Would it grieve you so much to stay a few days here?" said Lord Earlshope.

"Not at all," said Coquette; "I should prefer to stay here always."

"I have had the yacht taken round to Maol-Daroch Bay—that little shingly creek south of the harbour—since you spoke of the smell of the fishing-nets this morning. And when you wish to go into the village you must ask the captain to send you round in a boat. By the way, the gig will be here presently. I thought you might be too tired to care about walking back."

"It was very kind of you to think of all that," said Coquette, timidly, and looking to the ground.

It had already come to be regarded as a matter of course that everybody should consider Coquette as of first importance, and obey her slightest whim, and anticipate her smallest wishes. But the most systematic and persistent of her slaves was Earlshope himself, who seemed to have discovered a new method of passing the time in trying to please this young person by small attentions; and these he offered in a friendly and familiar way which robbed them of any significance they might otherwise have had. The small tyrant, with the dark eyes, and the delicate, finely-formed face, accepted these ministrations in that spirit of careless amiability which was natural to her. Sometimes—but rarely—she would appear to be struck by this or that act of kindness, and seem almost disturbed that she could not convey a sense of her gratitude in the broken tongue she spoke; but ordinarily she passed from hour to hour in the same happy unconsciousness and delight in the present—glad that all her friends were around her, and comfortable—glad that she could add to their enjoyment by being cheerful and merry. Selfish she certainly was not; and there was no sort of trouble or pain she would not have endured to give pleasure to those who were her friends; but she would have been blind indeed had she not perceived that to give pleasure she had only to allow herself to be pleased—that her mere presence diffused a sense of satisfaction through the small meetings that were held in the saloon of the yacht, when the swinging lamps were lit, and the stars overhead shut out, and the amusements of the evening begun. The Whaup used to say that she was continually making pretty pictures; and he even condescended at times to express approval of the neatness of her dress, or to suggest alterations in the disposal of her big masses of dark-brown hair.

"And in time, you know," he remarked to her, "you will get to talk like other people."

"I do not wish to talk like you," said Coquette.

"I can at least make myself intelligible," he retorted.

"Do not I become intelligible?" asked Coquette, meekly; and then, of course, the least symptom of doubt on her part disarmed the Whaup's criticism, and made him declare that she spoke very well indeed.

The measured splash of oars was now heard; and the heron slowly rose into the air with a few heavy flaps of his wings, and proceeded to settle on a farther promontory. The gig, with its four rowers, came round the point; and in a few minutes the heavily-laden boat was on its way back to the yacht.

Coquette was delighted with Maol-Daroch Bay; she insisted upon landing at once; and she and the Whaup accordingly ran up the white shingle, and made for the hill-side. Coquette stood upon a rock that was perched high among the heathery roughnesses of the hill, and waved her handkerchief to those who had by this time gone on board the yacht. Lord Earlshope answered with his cap, and Mr. Cassilis with his walking-stick; Lady Drum had gone below.

"Now we shall go up this hill, and round, and down, and back by the rocks of the shore," said Coquette.

"What's the use?" said the Whaup. "I haven't a gun; and if I had, I daren't shoot up here."

"Why must you kill something wherever you go?" said Coquette.

"Why must you scramble along a hill, all for nothing, like a goat?" demanded the Whaup.

"Because it is something to do," answered Coquette.

"You are a pretty invalid!" remarked the Whaup. "But here, give me your hand—if you want climbing, I'll give you enough of it."

"No," said Coquette, planting her foot firmly. "I like you when you are gentle, like Lord Earlshope; but I am not going to be pulled by a big rough boy."

"I have a great mind to carry you against your will," said the Whaup, a demon of mischief beginning to laugh in his eyes.

"I would kill you if you tried!" said Coquette, with a sudden frown.

He came forward and took her hand quite gently.

"Have I vexed you? Are you really angry, Coquette? You didn't think I was serious, did you? You know I wouldn't vex you, if I got the world for it."

A certain quivering of the lip, for a moment uncertain, resolved itself into a smile—and that into a laugh—and then Coquette said—

"You are a very good boy, Tom, when you like. Some one will be very fond of you some day."

The Whaup grew more serious then; and, indeed, it seemed to Coquette that ever after that time her cousin's manner towards her was more reserved and grave than it had been before. He did not try to drag her into his boyish pranks, as he had been wont to do. On the contrary, he himself seemed somewhat altered: and at times she caught him in a deep reverie. He began to talk more about his coming winter studies at the Glasgow University; and was even found, on rare occasions, absorbed in a book.

He did not cease to exhibit those frank and manly ways which she had always liked; nor did he even put any marked restraint on his relations with her. He was as impertinently straightforward as ever, if the neatness of her wristbands called for commendation, or if the streak of dark blue ribbon did not sufficiently curb the wildness of her hair. But he was more serious in his ways; and sometimes she caught him looking at her from a distance, in a cold way, as if she were a stranger, and he was desirous to impress her appearance on his memory.

That evening he said to her briefly—

"Lord Earlshope and I are going to start at two to-morrow morning to go along the coast and see if we can shoot some seals."

"But why should you take trouble to kill them? Is it a pleasure to kill them?"

"Bah!" he said. "Women don't understand these things. You wouldn't hear a man ask such a question—except, perhaps, Earlshope himself—he might—he seems to think in lots of things exactly as you do."

This was said with no particular intention; and yet the girl looked apprehensive as though the Whaup had been making some complaint.

Then some time after, he remarked to her—

"I don't think wicked people seem so wicked when you come to know them."

Coquette was looking over the taffrail; she turned towards him and said calmly—

"Do you mean me or Lord Earlshope?"

"Why should you always think of him?" said the Whaup. "Would you be very angry if what I said applied to both of you?"

With that he laughed and walked away, leaving Coquette to wonder whether her cousin, too, regarded her as a wicked person.

CHAPTER XVIII.

COQUETTE SAILS TO THE NORTH.

In the darkness the yellow lights of the yacht were shining on the spars and the rigging; the water that lapped against her side sparkled with stars of phosphorescent fire; and a slight wind, coming through the gloom, told of the rustling of ferns and bushes on the hillside—when certain dusky figures appeared on deck, and began to converse in whispers. The Whaup was yawning dreadfully, and perhaps wishing there was not a seal in the world; but he had proposed the adventure, to which Lord Earlshope had good-naturedly acceded, and so he felt himself bound in honour not to retract.

With their guns in their hands they got down into the dinghy which was waiting for them, and the two men began to pull away gently from the yacht. The blades of the oars struck a flash of silver deep into the water; and the white stars of the waves burned even more keenly than the other reflected stars which, farther away, were glittering on the black surface of the sea. Towards the land some vague and dusky forms that were scarcely visible were known to be the iron-bound coast; and in uncomfortable proximity the Whaup could hear the waves heaving in upon the rocks. There was no other sound but that and the measured rowing. Overhead the innumerable stars burned clear; there were flickerings of the reflected light on the moving plain of the sea; and in there at the shore a vague darkness, and the dashing of unseen waves.

When they had thus proceeded a certain distance along the coast, the bow of the boat was turned shore-ward, and the men pulled gently in toward the rocks. In the starlight the outlines of the hills above now became dimly visible; but underneath blackness universal seemed to hide both shore and sea. The noise all around them, however, told the Whaup that they must be near land; and in a few minutes the boat was cautiously run in, one of the men jumping out and holding her bow. With a double-barrelled gun in his right hand, the Whaup now found himself struggling over a series of rocks that were treacherously covered with seaweed; while, as he got on to higher ground, these rocks increased in size, and the gaps between them were plunged in even profounder darkness. Presently he heard Earlshope calling on him to halt; and shortly thereafter one of the sailors, who had landed, appeared clambering over the boulders in order to take the lead.

Their course was now a sufficiently perilous one. The great masses of tumbled rock that here form the coast line appeared to go precipitately down into the sea—a great black gulf which they could hear splashing beneath them; while ever and anon they came to deep ravines in the sides of the hill, down which small streamlets could be heard trickling. Their progress along these rough precipices—generally some fifty or a hundred feet above the sea—was picturesque but uncomfortable. The Whaup found that, in spite of all his wild plunges and daring leaps, the sailor distanced him considerably: and ahead of him he could only indistinctly see a black figure which sometimes rose up clear and defined against the star-lit sky, and at other times was vaguely seen to crawl along the surface of a grey shelf of rock like some dusky alligator. Now he found himself up to the neck among immense brackens; again he was plunged into some mossy hole, in which his boots were like to remain. Not unfrequently he had to go on hands and knees across some more than usually precipitous shelf; the stock of his gun making sore work of his knuckles as he clambered up the rough surface.

Another halt was called. When the small bay around Battle Island—where the seals were expected to be found—had nearly been reached, it was determined, to prevent noise, that they should take off their boots and creep along the rocks on their stocking-soles. The stars were now paling; and, as the faint light of dawn would soon appear, every precaution was necessary that the seals should not become aware of their approach. No sooner, indeed, had the Whaup removed his boots than he danced a wild dance of exultation, so delighted was he to find that the soles of his stockings caught so easily and surely on the surface of the boulders. There was now far less risk of a sudden tumble headlong into the sea—although, to be sure, even up here among the rocks, it was not pleasant, in the cold of the night, to find one's feet go down into a pool of mossy water.

"Do you regret having come?" said Lord Earlshope.

"Regret it!" said the Whaup. "I'd wade a mile up to my neck to shoot a seal."

Then he added, with his usual frankness—

"I didn't expect you'd have been able to keep up with us."

"Why?"

"Well," said the Whaup, seeing before him the outline of a tall, lithe, slim figure, "I didn't think you were much good for this sort of rough work."

Earlshope laughed—not very loudly.

"Perhaps not," he said; he did not think it worth while to astonish Master Tom with tales of what he had done in the way of muscular performances. "But you should not be severe on me. I rather fancy this is a piece of folly; and I have undertaken it merely to interest you."

The Whaup noticed at this moment that his companion had in his hand the heavy rifle, which he carried in a very easy and facile manner.

"You may be stronger than you look," observed the Whaup—throwing out this qualification from mere good-humour. He still retained an impression that Earlshope, with his lady-like fingers, and his pretty moustache, and his delicate jewellery, was something of a milksop.

Absolute silence was now the watchword as they advanced: there was no scraping of heels on the grit of the rocks—no clink of a trigger-guard in putting down the hand for safety's sake. In a thief-like fashion they stole along the high and rugged coast, now clambering over huge blocks of stone, and again fighting their way through fern and bush, with their heads low and their footfalls light. At length the sailor stopped, and motioned to Lord Earlshope and the Whaup to descend. Great was the joy of the latter on perceiving that at last there was a level bit of shore towards which they were making their way. Having gone down, in a snake-like fashion, over the mighty boulders, they now crept on towards the beach; and at length took up their position behind two pieces of rock, from which they could see the channel in front of them, lying between the land and the dusky object which they knew to be Battle Island.

Very still and weird was this place in the dark of the morning, with the cold air from the sea stirring in the brushwood overhead, and with the ceaseless plash of the waves echoing all along the solitary coast. A faint film of cloud had come over the sky, and hid the stars; but in the east there seemed to be a pallid grey far across the dark water towards Ardlamont Point. And, by-and-by, as they crouched behind the boulders, and waited, there was visible—whence it had come no one could say—a brilliant planet, burning like gold in the wan mist above the eastern sea; and they knew that it was the star of the morning. Slowly the dawn approached—slowly the dark outline of Battle Island became more defined; and the black hollows of the waves that crept in towards the shore had now a pale hue between them, that scarcely could be called light.

Patiently they waited, scanning the outline of the island-rocks, and watching all the water around for the rolling of the seals. There was no sign. Perhaps the grey in the east was waxing stronger—it was impossible to tell, for their eyes had grown bewildered with the constant motion of the tumbling waves and the eager scrutiny of these black lines and hollows.

Suddenly there was a quick chirp just beside them, and the Whaup's heart leapt with alarm. He turned to find a sea-lark running quite near him; and, at the same moment that he perceived this first symptom of awakening life, he became aware that it had grown lighter out by Ardlamont Point.

And now, with a strange and rapid transition, as if the world had begun to throb with the birth of the new day, there arose in the eastern sky a great smoke of red—a pink mist that mounted and spread as if from some mighty conflagration beyond the line of the sea. All in the west—by the far shores of Knapdale and up the long stretch of Lochfyne—there brooded a dull and mysterious fog, in which hills and islands lay like gloomy clouds; but over there at the eastern horizon there was a glow of rose-coloured smoke, which as yet had no reflection on the sea. And while they looked on it, half forgetting the object of their quest in the splendour of this sight—the perpetual wonder and mystery of the dawn—the red mist parted, and broke into long parallel swathes of cloud, which were touched with sharp, jewel-like lines of fire; and as the keenness of the crimson waxed stronger and stronger, there came over the sea a long and level flush of salmon-colour, which bathed the waves in its radiance, leaving their shadows an intense dark green. The glare and the majesty of this spectacle lasted but for a few minutes. The intensity of the colours subsided; the salmon-coloured waves grew of a pale neutral tint; a cold twilight spread over the sky; and with the stirring of the wind came in the new life of the world—the crowing of some grouse far up in the heather, the chirping of birds in the bushes, the calling of curlew, and the slow flapping of a pair of herons coming landward from the sea.

Suddenly Lord Earlshope, who had been peering over the edge of the rock before him, touched his companion's arm. The Whaup went forward on his knees, and stealthily looked over in the direction pointed out. He could see nothing but the dark rocks of Battle Island, in the midst of the greyish-green water. He was about to express his disappointment, when it seemed to him that the outline of a bit of rock at the end of the island was moving. Could it be the undulations of the waves which were surging all around; or was that motion of the black line the motion of an animal that had got up on it from the water?

Lord Earlshope handed his rifle to the Whaup, with a hurried gesture. But the arrangement had been that, while the one had a rifle and the other a double-barrelled fowling-piece loaded with heavy shot, the distance of the seal was to decide which should fire. Accordingly, the Whaup refused to take the rifle.

"It is your shot," he whispered.

"I don't want to kill the beast: why should I?" said Earlshope, carelessly.

Even as the Whaup was in the act of putting the barrel of the rifle cautiously over the rock, he remembered what Coquette had said; and also that he had made the haphazard guess that Earlshope would probably say the same. But there was little chance to think of such things. His breath was coming and going at double-quick time, and he held his teeth tight as he brought the sight of the barrel up to the line of rock. It rested there for a moment—there was a spurt of fire—a bang that echoed and re-echoed up among the rocky hills—and then Lord Earlshope rose, glad to be able to stretch his limbs at last.

"You have either missed altogether or shot him dead; there was no movement whatever when you fired."

"By Jove, then," said the Whaup, with tremendous eagerness, "I have shot him dead if there was a seal there at all—for I know the muzzle of the rifle was as steady as a rock when I fired."

"We shall see presently," said his companion. "They will bring the boat up now."

Presently, the two men were seen pulling round the point; and then Lord Earlshope and the Whaup went to the edge of the water, got into the boat, and were pulled out to the island. Very anxiously did one of them, at least, regard that small, dark promontory; but there was nothing visible. They drew nearer—they now saw the surface of the rocks clearly—and that was all.

"Very sorry," said Lord Earlshope, "but you seem to have missed."

"I didn't miss!" the Whaup insisted. "Let us land, and see."

So, at a convenient spot, they ran the boat in, and got out among the seaweed, and then made their way along to the end of the island. Suddenly the Whaup uttered a piercing yell of delight, and began to clamber along the rocks in the most reckless fashion. Lord Earlshope, following after him, found him grasping with both his hands a round-headed, fat, and limp-looking animal, which he was endeavouring to drag up to the higher platform.

"There—did I miss?" he cried.

"Well, since you have got him, what do you mean to do with him?" said Lord Earlshope, with a smile. "You have had the satisfaction of killing him, and the much rarer satisfaction of getting him after killing him—but what then?"

The Whaup dropped the seal on to the rocks again; and looked at the unfortunate creatures with some disappointment mingled with his pride.

"What do they make of these brutes? You can't get seal-skin waistcoats out of that soapy-looking stuff?"

"You may eat him, if you like—I suppose he is not much oilier than a solan. However, we may as well lug him into the boat, and get back to Maol-Daroch. It is singular we have seen none of his companions, though."

The men approached the slippery animal with much more caution than the Whaup had displayed—they were evidently not quite sure that the whiskered mouth might not open and proceed from a bark to a bite. He was got into the boat at last; Earlshope and the Whaup followed; and again the fall of the oars was heard along the lonely coast. It was now broad daylight; and when they reached Maol-Daroch Bay, the sun was shining on the green hill-side, and on the white beach, and on the far blue plain of the sea.

Coquette was standing at the stern of the yacht as they approached, with the sunlight colouring her cheek and gleaming on the white handkerchief she waved to them.

"Have you had a success?" she said. "Oh, how very miserable you look!"

"It isn't half as meeserayble as we feel," remarked the Whaup, who was sleepy, and hungry, and stiff.

"You have not shot nothing!" said Coquette, clapping her hands, "or you would come home proud and fierce—like the old north warriors when they did come home from the sea. What is that in the boat? Ah! You shoot one?—yes! It is beastly-looking—I mean it is hideous—horrid!"

The seal was allowed for the present to remain in the small boat, and Earlshope and the Whaup came on deck. To the sleepy eyes of the Whaup, who was cold and wretched in spite of his triumph, his cousin seemed quite offensively cheerful, and bright, and comfortable.

"Have you had breakfast yet?" said Lord Earlshope.

"No," she answered. "I have made friends with your steward, and he has given me two apples and a big bunch of grapes. I am sorry I have eaten all—I cannot give you one."

"Thank you," said he. "But I suppose your cousin will follow my example, get down below, and have a sleep. Good-bye till lunch-time, Miss Cassilis—I presume by then we shall be up at Ardrishaig."

So they went below; and Coquette sat down, and took up a book she had been carrying with her. But she could not read; for there was sunlight abroad, and the fluttering of wind through the thin ropes that stretched up into the blue, and the ripple of the bright water all around. They were about to set out now on their voyage northward—that far wandering into the unknown Western Isles of which she had dreamed—and he had spoken no word of his leaving them. Would he go all the way, then, and spend all this happy time with them, afar from the dull routine-life and the harsh-thinking people of the land? As she thought of the fair prospect that was thus opened out before her, the pages of the book that lay in the sunshine were filled with pictures—wonderful landscapes that burned in the brightest of colours, and had the stirring of wind and of light in them. Lady Drum came on deck, and was surprised to find the girl sitting all alone, looking so wonderfully pleased and happy.

"To-day we set sail," said Coquette, almost laughing with pure gladness, "and go away—away beyond all you can think of—among hills, and mountains, and the sea."

"Perhaps you would be glad not to come back?" said Lady Drum, looking into the happy face, and holding both the girl's hands.

"Yes—I should be glad not to come back—it is so pleasant here—and where we are going, will not that be far more pleasant?"

"That is what young folks always think," said Lady Drum—"always looking forward with hope in their eyes. But we who have got older, and have gone farther on the voyage—we look back."

And while these two and Mr. Cassilis were at breakfast, they heard the sails being hoisted above; and when they went on deck, they found the great breadths of white canvas lying over before a southerly breeze; and there was a hissing of water at the bow and along the side; and, while Maol-Daroch Bay, and Tarbert, and all the rocks and islands about were slowly receding to the south, before them there opened up the great blue breadth of Lochfyne, with the far, faint hills shining mistily in the sun.

CHAPTER XIX.

COQUETTE DISCOURSES.

"I think your cousin is very fond of you," said Lady Drum, with a good-natured smile, to Coquette. They were running up the blue waters of Lochfyne, before a light and steady breeze. The Whaup had concealed himself at the bow, lying prone, with the barrels of his breech-loader peeping over the rail.

"Oh, yes, I am sure he is," said Coquette, seriously. "He will do anything for me—he has dared to fight disagreeable people for me—he has got into danger for me—he is very kind—and just now, look! he is trying to get for me some wild bird—I do not know its name—which has beautiful feathers."

"All that is nothing," said Lady Drum, taking Coquette's hand in hers. "Don't you think that some day or other he may ask you to marry him?"

The elderly lady who was now looking at Coquette's face, expected—as elderly ladies do expect when they begin to tease girls about love-affairs—that her companion would blush, and protest, and be pleased, and affect to be indignant. On the contrary, Coquette said, simply and gravely—

"Yes, I have thought of that. But he is too young."

"And you also, perhaps. In a year or two he will be a man, and you will be marriageable."

"Then," said Coquette, dubiously, "it may be. I do not know, because my uncle has not spoken to me of any such thing; but he may think it a good marriage, and arrange it."

"Bless me, lassie!" exclaimed Lady Drum, in amazement. "Is it true that folk make slaves of their children in that way in France? I have heard of it; I did not believe it. In this country girls arrange their own marriages."

"That, too, is very good," said Coquette, "when it is with their parents' wish. It is of more consequence that a girl pleases her parents than herself, is it not?"

"And make herself miserable all her life?" said Lady Drum, startled to find herself arguing—in defiance of all precedent—on the side of youth as against age.

"But that does not happen," said Coquette. "Now one of my good friends in Nantes—she was told by her parents that she had to marry a young gentleman who was coming home from the Martinique, and had never been to France before. I remember she and her parents did go down by the railway to St. Nazaire, when they heard the boat had come; and a week or two after I did see Babiche—that is Isabella, you know—and oh! how proud and happy she was. And they are married, and live at Palmbœuf, just across the river; and Babiche is as happy as she can be. But then," added Coquette wistfully, "the young gentleman was very good-looking."

They were interrupted by a loud "bang!" at the bow. The Whaup had fired at a couple of guillemots that were some distance off on the water; but they had "ducked the flash," and Coquette was not enriched with any of their plumage. Then she resumed:

"What I do think very good is this," said Coquette, "when your parents speak of a marriage, and it is left not altogether fixed; but all the same, if they die, and you are left alone, and you have no friends, there is the one person who comes to you and says, 'Now I will take care of you,' and you know they would have approved. And the same it is if you have got into trouble—suppose that you did become miserable through making an attachment for some one who does not care for you—there is always this good friend who likes you, and you can marry, and forget all that is past, and be like other people for the rest of your life."

Lady Drum could scarce believe her ears. Had she been called upon to argue on the usual side, she could have repeated those admirably wise maxims which elderly ladies have at their command (and which they never thought of obeying in their youth); but surely things were ordered differently in France when this young creature—whose soft dark eyes were apparently made to steal men's hearts away—could be found gravely arguing a business-like view of love affairs, which even a shrewd and able Scotchwoman would have scrupled to advance.

"You mean," said Lady Drum, "that French girls like their parents to choose a husband, so that, if they have an unfortunate love affair, they can still fall back on this substitute?"

"Oh, no," said Coquette; "you do say things harshly. But who knows what might happen?—and if your old fiancé is still faithful—and would like to marry—you make him happy, do you not?"

"And is that the rôle you have sketched out for your good-natured cousin?" asked Lady Drum, rather vexed with this plain enunciation of a theory which, although it was based upon filial submission, seemed to her to have dangerous elements in it.

"Ah, no," said Coquette, gravely; "I hope I shall never have to go to him and say that I am willing to become his wife only because I am miserable and unhappy. He deserves something better than that, does he not?"

"And so do you," said Lady Drum, in a kindly fashion. "You must not go anticipating misfortune for yourself in that way. You must forget the notions those French people put into your head. You will take to our simple Scotch habits—and you will marry the man you love best, and not any substitute at anybody's bidding. A pleasant courtship—a happy marriage—and an even, comfortable, respectable life, that is the custom here."

Indeed, Lady Drum's notions of romance had been derived chiefly from the somewhat easy and confident overtures made by Sir Peter while he was yet a young man, and had a waist. The gay and rotund Sir Peter at no time would have looked well in the character of Manfred; and his performance on a guitar under his mistress's window would have been but indifferent. Lady Drum knew she was as happy as most married women; and hoped that these dangerous French ideas about wild love affairs being atoned for by an after-marriage with a substitute chosen by relatives, would not be translated into the uncongenial atmosphere of Western Scotland.

"I thought," said Coquette, "that the Scotch people were very hard in their obedience to duty—and against pleasure and comfort. Then I said to myself, 'Alas! I shall never become Scotch.' But now I do think on one point I am more dutiful than you. I would marry anybody that my uncle and all of you considered I ought to marry."

"And make love to somebody else, as is the fashion in France!" said Lady Drum, with a touch of anger.

"It is no such fashion in France," said Coquette. "It is only that the Scotch are ignorant of all people but themselves—and think nobody so good as themselves—and are suspicious!"

Lady Drum's anger broke into a smile at the pretty vehemence with which Coquette fought for her country-women; and at this moment Lord Earlshope came on deck and asked what was the matter in dispute. Coquette caught Lady Drum's hand, and pressed it. The old Scotchwoman looked at the girl, and saw that she was quite pale—a circumstance that puzzled her not a little in after moments of reflection.

"Well," said Lady Drum, obeying Coquette's unspoken entreaty, "we were talking about—about French schools for the most part."

Further inquiry was rendered impossible; for at this moment the yacht was running into the harbour of Ardrishaig, and there was a good deal of bustle on board. The Whaup came aft also, taking the cartridges out of his gun; and began to make vague suggestions about lunch. Finally, it was resolved that, so soon as Mr. Cassilis could be prevailed on to remove his books and writing materials from the table of the saloon, they should go down to have that meal which was troubling the mind of the Whaup, and so escape the tedium of the preparations necessary for going through the Crinan canal.

Why was Coquette so silent and distraite when—after a long and solemn grace from the Minister—they began the French-looking repast which had been served for them?

"You are still thinking of the pension, are you not, Miss Cassilis?" said Earlshope. "You should give us some initiation into the mysteries of so sacred a place. Was there anything romantic about it?"

"Our pension was full of mystery and romance," said Coquette, brightening up, "because of two German young ladies who were there. They introduced—what shall I call it?—exaltation. Do you know what it is? When one girl makes another exaltée, because of her goodness or her beauty, and worships her, and kisses her dress when she passes her, and serves her in all things, yet dare not speak to her? And the girl who is exaltée—she must be proud and cold, and show scorn for her attendant—even although she has been her friend. It was these German young ladies from the Bohemian-Wald who introduced it—and they were tall and dark, and very beautiful, and many would have wished to make them exaltées, but they were always the first to seek out some one whom they admired very much, and no one was so humble and obedient as they were. All the pension was filled with it—it was a religion, an enthusiasm—and you would see girls crying and kneeling on the floor, to show their love and admiration for their friend."

"And you—were you ever exaltée?" asked Lord Earlshope.

"No," said Coquette, with a little shrug. "One or two of my friends did wish to make me exaltée, but I did laugh at them, and they were angry. I did not wish to be cruel to anyone. I did prefer to go about and be friends with everybody in the middle of so much distraction."

"And did you never exalt anybody?"

"No, it was too troublesome," said Coquette. At which Lady Drum smiled.

"It seems to me," observed the Whaup, coolly, "that it was a clever device to let a lot of girls make love to each other, for want of anybody else. It was keeping their hand in, as it were."

"It is a pity you were not there," said Coquette, graciously. "We should have been charmed to make you exalté."

"And do you think I'd have treated any of you with scorn?" said the Whaup, with a grin, and quite ignoring Coquette's retort. "No. Far from it, I should have——"