ound in the moonlight, with the low hills beyond, now grown quite
black; but all the same she was very silent as they walked back to the
inn. And she was pale and thoughtful, too, while they were having their
frugal supper of bread and milk; and very soon, pleading fatigue, she
retired. But all the same, when Mr. White went upstairs, some time
after, he had been but a short while in his room when he heard a tapping
at the door. He said "Come in," and his daughter entered. He was
surprised by the curious look of her face--a sort of piteous look, as of
one ill at ease, and yet ashamed to speak.

"What is it, child?" said he.

She regarded him for a second with that piteous look; and then tears
slowly gathered in her eyes.

"Papa," said she, in a sort of half-hysterical way, "I want you to take
me away from here. It frightens me. I don't know what it is. He was
talking to me about graves--"

And here she burst out crying, and sobbed bitterly.

"Oh, nonsense, child!" her father said; "your nervous system must have
been shaken last night by that storm. I have seen a strange look upon
your face all day. It was certainly a mistake our coming here; you are
not fitted for this savage life."

She grew more composed. She sat down for a few minutes; and her father,
taking out a small flask which had been filled from a bottle of brandy
sent over during the day from Castle Dare, poured out a little of the
spirits, added some water, and made her drink the dose as a sleeping
draught.

"Ah well, you know, pappy," said she, as she rose to leave, and she
bestowed a very pretty smile on him, "it is all in the way of
experience, isn't it? and an artist should experience everything. But
there is just a little too much about graves and ghosts in these parts
for me. And I suppose we shall go to-morrow to see some cave or other
where two or three hundred men, women, and children were murdered."

"I hope in going back we shall not be as near our own grave as we were
last night," her father observed.

"And Keith Macleod laughs at it," she said, "and says it was unfortunate
we got a wetting!"

And so she went to bed; and the sea-air had dealt well with her; and she
had no dreams at all of shipwrecks, or of black familiars in moonlit
shrines. Why should her sleep be disturbed because that night she had
put her foot on the grave of the chief of the Macleods?

CHAPTER XXXIV.

THE UMPIRE.

Next morning, with all this wonderful