That isn't the way they look at it there? All worshipped the rising sun? As the scent of a flower will haunt a closed room, though the flower be taken away. Connie's not quite so young as she was, no doubt, but faithfulness never grows old; And were beauty the only fuel of love, the warmest hearth soon would grow cold. Once you thought that she had not travelled, and knew neither the world nor life: Not to roam, but to deem her own hearth the whole world, that's what a man wants in a wife. I'm sure you'd be happy with Connie, at least if your own heart's in the right place. She will bring you nor power, nor station, nor wealth, but she never will bring you disgrace. They say that the moon, though she moves round the sun, never turns to him morning or night But one face of her sphere, and it must be because she's so true a satellite; And Connie, if into your orbit once drawn by the sacrament sanctioned above, Would revolve round you constantly, only to show the one-sided aspect of love. You will never grow rich by the land, I own; but if Connie and you should wed, It will feed your children and household too, as it you and your fathers fed. There's a fairish promise of barley straw, but the ears look rusty and slim : God neither progresses nor changes, dear, as I once heard you rashly say: To keep His commandments, to fear His name, and what should be done, to do That's the beginning of wisdom still; I suspect 'tis the end of it too. You must see the new-fangled machines at work, that harrow, and thresh, and reap; They're wonderful quick, there's no mistake, and they say in the end they're cheap. But they make such a clatter, and seem to bring the rule of the town to the fields : There's something more precious in country life than the balance of wealth it yields. But that seems going; I'm sure I hope that I shall be gone before: They're a mighty saving of labor, though; so at least I hear them tell, If machines are growing like men, man seems to be growing a half machine. Still stick to your duty, my dear, and then things cannot go much amiss. What made folks happy in bygone times, will make them happy in this. There's little that's called amusement, here; but why should the old joys pall? Has the blackbird ceased to sing loud in spring? Has the cuckoo forgotten to call? Are bleating voices no longer heard when the cherry-blossoms swarm? And have home, and children, and fireside lost one gleam of their ancient charm? Come, let us go round; to the farm-yard first, with its litter of fresh-strewn straw, Past the ash-tree dell, round whose branching tops the young rooks wheel and caw; Through the ten-acre mead that was mown the first, and looks well for aftermath, Then round by the beans-I shall tire by then-and home up the garden path, Where the peonies hang their blushing heads, where the larkspur laughs from its stalk With my stick and your arm I can manage. But see! up the walk. There, Connie comes WHITE WINGS: A YACHTING ROMANCE. CHAPTER XVII. BY WILLIAM BLACK. VILLAINY ABROAD. IT is near mid-day; two late people are sitting at breakfast; the skylight overhead has been lifted, and the cool sea-air fills the saloon. "Dead calm again," says Angus Sutherland, for he can see the rose-red ensign hanging limp from the mizzenmast, a blaze of color against the still blue. There is no doubt that the White Dove is quite motionless, and that a perfect silence reigns around her. That is why we can hear so distinctly-through the open skylight-the gentle footsteps of two people who are pacing up and down the deck, and the soft voice of one of them as she speaks to her friend. What is all this wild enthusiasm about, then? world!"-we can hear so much as she passes the skylight. "One profession lives by fomenting quarrels ; and another studies the art of killing in every form; but this one lives only to healonly to relieve the suffering and help the miserable. That is the profession I should belong to if I were a man !'' Our young Doctor says nothing as the voice recedes; but he is obviously listening for the return walk along the deck. And here she comes again. "The patient drudgery of such a life is quite heroic-whether he is a man of science, working day and night to find out things for the good of the world, nobody thanking him or caring about him, or whether he is a physician in practice with not a minute that can be called his own-liable to be summoned at any hour-" The voice again becomes inaudible. "It is the noblest profession in the It is remarked to this young man that Mary Avon seems to have a pretty high tors. "I heard something of what Miss Avon said," he admitted. The girl, looking rather aghast, glanced at the open skylight. "We thought you were asleep," she stammered, and with her face somewhat Once more the light tread on deck flushed. comes near the skylight. "If I were the Government," says Mary Avon warmly, "I should be ashamed to see so rich a country as England content to take her knowledge second-hand from the German Universities; while such men as Dr. Sutherland are harassed and hampered in their proper work by having to write articles and do ordinary doctor's visiting. I should be ashamed. If it is a want of money, why don't they pack off a dozen or two of the young noodles who pass the day whittling quills in the Foreign Office ?-" Even when modified by the distance, and by the soft lapping of the water outside, this seems rather strong language for a young lady. Why should Miss Avon again insist in such a warm fashion on the necessity of endowing research? But Angus Sutherland's face is burning red. Listeners are said to hear ill of themselves. 66 "However, Dr. Sutherland is not likely to complain," she says proudly, as she comes by again. No; he is too proud of his profession. He does his work; and leaves the appreciation of it to others. And when everybody knows that he will one day be among the most famous 'men in the country, is it not monstrous that he should be harassed by drudgery in the mean time? If I were a Government-" But Angus Sutherland cannot suffer this to go on. He leaves his breakfast unfinished, passes along the saloon, and ascends the companion. "Good morning!" he says. 66 "Why, are you up already?" his hostess says. We have been walking as lightly as we could, for we thought you were both asleep. And Mary has been heaping maledictions on the head of the Government because it doesn't subsidize all you microscope-men. The next thing she will want is a license for the whole of you to be allowed to vivisect criminals." "At least, I heard you say something about the Government," he said kindly. "Well, all I ask from the Government is to give me a trip like this every summer." 66 What," says his hostess, "with a "And seas like glass?" 66 I don't mind." "And the impossibility of getting back to land?" "So much the better," he says defiantly. 66 "Why," she reminds him, laughing, He hesitated for a moment, and then "I believe a sort of madness of idleness has got possession of me. I have dallied so long with that tempting invitation of yours to stay and see the White Dove through the equinoctials thatthat I think I really must give in—” "You cannot help yourself," his hostess says promptly. "You have already promised. Mary is my witness."' The witness seems anxious to avoid being brought into this matter; she turns to the Laird quickly and asks him some question about Ru-na-Gaul light over there. Ru-na-Gaul light no doubt it is-shining white in the sun at the point of the great cliffs; and there is the entrance to Tobbermorry; and here is Mingary Castle-brown ruins amid the brilliant greens of those sloping shores-and there are the misty hills over Loch Sunart. For the rest, blue seas around us, glassy and still; and blue skies overhead, cloudless and pale. The barometer refuses to budge. But suddenly there is a brisk excitement. What though the breeze that is darkening the water there is coming on right ahead?—we shall be moving anyway. And as the first puffs of it catch the sails, Angus Sutherland places Mary 4 Avon in command; and she is now-by the permission of her travelling physician-allowed to stand as she guides the course of the vessel. She has become an experienced pilot: the occasional glance at the leach of the top-sail is all that is needed; she keeps as accurately "full and by" as the master of one of the famous cuptakers. "Now, Mary," says her hostess, "it all depends on you as to whether Angus will catch the steamer this evening.' "Oh, does it?" she says, with apparent innocence. "Yes; we shall want very good steering to get within sight of Castle Osprey before the evening." "Very well, then," says this audacious person. At the same instant she deliberately puts the helm down. Of course the yacht directly runs up to the wind, her sails flapping helplessly. Everybody looks surprised; and John of Skye, thinking that the new skipper has only been a bit careless, calls out— "Keep her full, men, if you please." 66 What do you mean, Mary. What are you about?" cries Queen T. 66 "I am not going to be responsible for sending Dr. Sutherland away," she says, in a matter-of-fact manner, since he says he is in no hurry to go. If you wish to drive your guest away, I won't be a party to it. I mean to steer as badly as I can." 66 Then I depose you," says Dr. Sutherland promptly. "I cannot have a pilot who disobeys orders. "Very well," she says, "you may take the tiller yourself"-and she goes away, and sits down in high dudgeon, by the Laird. So once more we get the vessel under way; and the breeze is beginning to blow somewhat more briskly; and we notice with hopefulness that there is rougher water farther down the Sound. But with this slow process of beating, how are we to get within sight of Castle Osprey before the great steamer comes up from the South? The Laird is puzzling over the Admiralty Sailing Directions. The young lady, deeply offended, who sits beside him, pays him great attention, and talks at" the rest of the passengers with undisguised contempt. 66 "It is all haphazard, the sailing of a yacht," she says to him, though we can all hear. "Anybody can do it. But they make a jargon about it to puzzle other people, and pretend it is a science, and all that." 44 "Well," says the Laird, who is quite unaware of the fury that fills her brain, there are some of the phrases in this book that are verra extraordinary. In navigating this same Sound of Mull, they say you are to keep the 'weather shore aboard.' How can ye keep the weather shore aboard?"' "Indeed, if we don't get into a port soon," remarks our hostess and chief commissariat-officer, "it will be the only thing we shall have on board. How would you like it cooked, Mary?'' "I won't speak to any of you," says the disgraced skipper, with much composure. Will you sing to us, then ?'' "Will you behave properly if you are reinstated in command ?" asks Angus Sutherland. "Yes, I will," she says quite humbly; and forthwith she is allowed to have the tiller again. Brisker and brisker grows the breeze; it is veering to the south, too; the sea is rising, and with it the spirits, of everybody on board. The ordinarily sedate and respectable White Dove is showing herself a trifle frisky, moreover; an occasional clatter below of hair-brushes or candlesticks tells us that people accustomed to calms fall into the habit of leaving their cabins ill-arranged. 66 There will be more wind, sir," says John of Skye, coming aft; and he is looking at some long and streaky mare's tails" in the south-western sky. And if there wass a gale o' wind, I would let her have it !" 66 66 Why that grim ferocity of look, Captain John? Is the poor old White Dove responsible for the too fine weather, that you would like to see her driven, all wet and bedraggled, before a southwesterly gale? If you must quarrel with something, quarrel with the barometer; you may admonish it with a belaying-pin if you please. Brisker and brisker grows the breeze. Now we hear the first pistol-shots of the spray come rattling over the bows; and Hector of Moidart has from time to time to duck his head, or shake the water from his jersey. The White Dove breasts these rushing waves, and a foam of white water goes hissing away from either side of her. Speine Môr and Speine Beg we leave behind; in the distance we can descry the ruins of Aros Castle and the deep indentation of Salen Bay; here we are passing the thick woods of Funeray. Farewell, farewell, to Funeray!" The squally look in the south-west increases; the wind veers more and more. Commander Mary Avon is glad to resign the helm, for it is not easy to retain hold in these plunging seas. 66 "Why, you will catch the steamer after all, Angus!" says his hostess, as we go tearing by the mouth of Loch Aline. "This is a good one for the last!" he calls to her. "Give her some more sheet, John; the wind is going round to the north !" Whence comes the whirling storm in the midst of the calm summer weather? The blue heavens are as blue as the petal of a crane's bill surely such a sky has nothing to do with a hurricane. But wherever it comes from, it is welcome enough; and the brave White Dove goes driving through those heavy seas, sometimes cresting them buoyantly, at other times meeting them with a dull shock, followed by a swish of water that rushes along the lee scuppers. And those two women-folk-without ulsters or other covering it is a merry game to play jack-in-the-box, and duck their heads under the shelter of the gig when the spray springs into the air. But somehow the sea gets the best of it. Laugh as they may, they must be feeling rather damp about their hair; and as for Mary Avon's face-that has got a bath of salt-water at least a dozen times. She cares not. Sun, wind, and sea she allows to do their worst with her complexion. Soon we shall have to call her the Nut-brown Maid. Brisker and brisker grows the breeze. Angus Sutherland, with a rope round the tiller, has his teeth set hard he is indeed letting the White Dove have it at last, for he absolutely refuses to have the top-sail down. The main tack, then : might not that be hauled up? No; he would have none of John of Skye's counsels. The White Dove tears her way through the water-we raise a cloud of birds from the rocks opposite Scallasdale -we see the white surf breaking in at Craignure-ahead of us is Lismore Lighthouse, perched over the whirling and struggling tides, shining white in the sunlight above the dark and driven sea. Ahead she goes; the land she knows! -past the shadowy ruins of Duart, and out and through the turbulent tides off the lighthouse rocks. The golden afternoon is not yet far advanced; let but this brave breeze continue, and soon they will descry the White Dove from the far heights of Castle Osprey! But there was to be no Castle Osprey for Angus Sutherland that evening, despite the splendid run the White Dove had made. It was a race, indeed, between the yacht and the steamer for the quay; and notwithstanding that Mary Avon was counselling everybody to give it up as impossible, John of Skye would hold to it in the hope of pleasing Dr. Sutherland himself. And no sooner was the anchor let go in the bay than the gig was down from the davits; the men had jumped in; the solitary portmanteau was tossed into the stern; and Angus Sutherland was hurriedly bidding his adieus. The steamer was at this instant slowing into the quay. "I forbid any one to say good-by to him," says our Admiral-in-chief sternly. "Au revoir-auf Wiedersehen-anything you like-no good-by." Last of all he took Mary Avon's hand. "You have promised, you know," she said, with her eyes cast down. "Yes," said he, regarding her for an instant with a strange look-earnest perhaps, and yet timid-as if it would ask a question and dared not-" I will keep my promise. my promise." Then he jumped into the boat. That was a hard pull away to the quay; and even in the bay the water was rough, so that the back-sweep of the oars sometimes caught the waves and sent the spray flying in the wind. The Chevalier had rung her bells. We made sure he would be too late. What was the reason of this good-natured indulgence? We lost sight of the gig in at the landing-slip. Then the great steamer slowly steamed |