lady was at Dare; and he thinks I am better at
work in looking after the dogs."

Suddenly Macleod stopped, and took out a pencil and wrote something on a
card.

"I was sure I had forgotten something, Janet," said he. "That is the
address of Johnny Wickes's mother. We were to sent him up to see her
some time before Christmas."

"Before Christmas!" Janet exclaimed; and she looked at him in amazement.
"But you are coming back before Christmas, Keith!"

"Oh, well, Janet," said he carelessly, "you know that when one goes away
on a voyage it is never certain about your coming back at all, and it is
better to leave everything right."

"But you are not going away from us with thoughts like those in your
head, surely?" the cousin said. "Why, the man from Greenock says you
could go to America in the _Umpire_; and if you could go to America,
there will not be much risk in the calmer seas of the South. And you
know, Keith, auntie and I don't want you to trouble about writing
letters to us; for you will have enough trouble in looking after the
yacht; but you will send us a telegram from the various places you put
into."

"Oh yes, I will do that," said he somewhat absently. Even the bustle of
departure and the brightness of the morning had failed to put color and
life into the haggard face and the hopeless eyes.

That was a sorrowful leave-taking at the shore; and Macleod, standing on
the deck of the yacht, could see long after they had set sail, that his
mother and cousin were still on the small quay watching the _Umpire_ so
long as she was in sight. Then they rounded the Ross of Mull, and he saw
no more of the women of Castle Dare.

And this beautiful white sailed vessel that is going south through the
summer seas: surely she is no deadly instrument of vengeance, but only a
messenger of peace? Look, now how she has passed through the Sound of
Iona; and the white sails are shining in the light; and far away before
her, instead of islands with which she is familiar, are other
islands--another Colonsay altogether, and Islay, and Jura, and Scarba,
all a pale transparent blue. And what will the men on the lonely
Dubh-Artach rock think of her as they see her pass by? Why, surely that
she looks like a beautiful white dove. It is a summer day; the winds are
soft; fly south, then, White Dove, and carry to her this message of
tenderness, and entreaty, and peace? Surely the gentle ear will listen
to you before the winter comes and