take my inspiration from a picture as well as from a human face?"

"You mean to say he is only a copyist--a plagiarist!" she said, with
some indignation.

"Not at all," said he. "All artists have their methods founded more or
less on the methods of those who have gone before them. You don't expect
an artist to discover for himself an entirely new principle of art, any
more than you expect him to paint in pigments of his own invention. Mr.
Lemuel has been a diligent student of Botticelli--that is all."

This strange talk amidst the awful loneliness and grandeur of
Glen-Sloich! They were idly walking along the rough road: far above them
rose the giant slopes of the mountains retreating into heavy masses of
cloud that were moved by the currents of the morning wind. It was a gray
day; and the fresh-water lake here was of a leaden hue, and the browns
and greens of the mountain-side were dark and intense. There was no sign
of human life or habitation; there was no bird singing; the deer was far
away in the unknown valleys above them, hidden by the mystic cloud
phantoms. There was an odor of sweet-gale in the air. The only sound was
the murmuring of the streams that were pouring down through these vast
solitudes to the sea.

And now they reached a spot from whence, on turning, they caught sight
of the broad plain of the Atlantic--all wind-swept and white. And the
sky was dark and low down, though at one place the clouds had parted,
and there was a glimmer of blue as narrow and keen as the edge of a
knife. But there were showers about; for Iona was invisible, and Staffa
was faintly gray through the passing rain; and Ulva was almost black as
the storm approached in its gloom. Botticelli! Those men now in that
small lugsailed boat--far away off the point of Gometra--a tiny dark
thing, apparently lost every second or so amidst the white Atlantic
surge, and wrestling hard with the driving wind and sea to reach the
thundering and foam-filled caverns of Staffa--they were not thinking
much of Botticelli. Keith Macleod was in that boat. The evening before
Miss White had expressed some light wish about some trifle or other, but
had laughingly said that she must wait till she got back to the region
of shops. Unknown to her, Macleod had set off to intercept the steamer:
and he would go on board and get hold of the steward; and would the
steward be so kind as to hunt about in Oban to see if that trifle could
not be found? Macleod would