“But you must not think of it as a melancholy thing,” he said, almost anxiously.  “You will find yourself among all sorts of gayeties and amusements; you will have cheerful people around you, and plenty of things to see; you will drive in beautiful parks, and go to theatres, and meet people in large and brilliant rooms, filled with flowers and silver and light.  And all through the winter, that must be so cold and dark up here, you will find abundance of warmth and light, and plenty of flowers, and every sort of pleasant thing.  You will hear no more of those songs of drowned people; and you will be afraid no longer of the storms, or listen to the waves at night; and by and by, when you have got quite accustomed to London, and got a great many friends, you might be disposed to stay there altogether; and you would grow to think of this island as a desolate and melancholy place, and never seek to come back.”

The girl rose suddenly and turned to a fuchsia tree, pretending to pick some of its flowers.  Tears had sprung to her eyes unbidden, and it was in rather an uncertain voice that she said, still managing to conceal her face, “I like to hear you talk of those places, but—­but I will never leave Borva.”

What possible interest could he have in combating this decision so anxiously, almost so imploringly?  He renewed his complaints against the melancholy of the sea and the dreariness of the northern winters.  He described again and again the brilliant lights and colors of town-life in the South.  As a mere matter of experience and education she ought to go to London; and had not her papa as good as intimated his intention of taking her?

In the midst of these representations a step was heard in the hall, and then the girl looked round with a bright light on her face.

“Well, Sheila?” said Ingram, according to his custom, and both the girl’s hands were in his the next minute.  “You are down early.  What have you been about?  Have you been telling Mr. Lavender of the Black Horse of Loch Suainabhal?”

“No:  Mr. Lavender has been telling me of London.”

“And I have been trying to induce Miss Mackenzie to pay us a visit, so that we may show her the difference between a city and an island.  But all to no purpose.  Miss Mackenzie seems to like hard winters and darkness and cold; and as for that perpetual and melancholy and cruel sea, that in the winter-time I should fancy might drive anybody into a lunatic asylum—­”

“Ah, you must not talk badly of the sea,” said the girl, with all her courage and brightness returned to her face:  “it is our very good friend.  It gives us food, and keeps many people alive.  It carries the lads away to other places, and brings them back with money in their pockets—­”

“And sometimes it smashes a few of them on the rocks, or swallows up a dozen families, and the next morning it is as smooth and treacherous and fair as if nothing had happened.”