The booming of a gun told them that the last yacht had rounded the
lightship. The band struck up a lively air, and presently the steamer
was steaming off in the wake of the procession of yachts. There was now
no more fear that Miss White should be late. The breeze had kept up
well, and had now shifted a point to the east, so that the yachts, with
their great ballooners, were running pretty well before the wind. The
lazy abandonment of the day became more complete than ever. Careless
talk and laughter; an easy curiosity about the fortunes of the race; tea
in the saloon, with the making up of two bouquets of white roses,
sweet-peas, fuchias, and ferns--the day passed lightly and swiftly
enough. It was a summer day, full of pretty trifles. Macleod,
surrendering to the fascination, began to wonder what life would be if
it were all a show of June colors and a sound of dreamy music: for one
thing, he could not imagine this sensitive, beautiful, pale, fine
creature otherwise than as surrounded by an atmosphere of delicate
attentions and pretty speeches, and sweet, low laughter.

They got into their special train again at Gravesend, and were whirled
up to London. At Charing Cross he bade good-bye to Miss White, who was
driven off by Mr. and Mrs. Ross along with their other guest. In the
light of the clear June evening he walked rather absently up to his
rooms.

There was a letter lying on the table. He seized it and opened it with
gladness. It was from his cousin Janet, and the mere sight of it seemed
to revive him like a gust of keen wind from the sea. What had she to
say? About the grumbling of Donald, who seemed to have no more pride in
his pipes, now the master was gone? About the anxiety of his mother over
the reports of the keepers? About the upsetting of a dog-cart on the