into something far beyond what Sheila’s father intended; insomuch that many an old crone would proudly and sagaciously wag her head, and say that when Miss Sheila came back to Borva strange things might be seen, and it would be a proud day for Mr. Mackenzie if he was to go down to the shore to meet Queen Victoria herself, and the princes and princesses, and many fine people, all come to stay at his house and have great rejoicings in Borva.

Thus it was that Duncan invariably lingered about when he brought a letter from Sheila; and if her father happened to forget or be preoccupied, Duncan would humbly but firmly remind him.  On-this occasion Mr. Mackenzie put down his paint-brush and took the bundle of letters and newspapers Duncan had brought him.  He selected that from Sheila, and threw the others on the beach beside him.

There was really no news in the letter.  Sheila merely said that she could not as yet answer her father’s question as to the time she might probably visit Lewis.  She hoped he was well, and that, if she could not get up to Borva that autumn, he would come South to London for a time, when the hard weather set in in the North.  And so forth.  But there was something in the tone of the letter that struck the old man as being unusual and strange.  It was very formal in its phraseology.  He read it twice over very carefully, and forgot altogether that Duncan was waiting.  Indeed, he was going to turn away, forgetting his work and the other letters that still lay on the beach, when he observed that there was a postscript on the other side of the last page.  It merely said:  “Will you please address your letters now to No. ——­ Pembroke road, South Kensington, where I may be for some time?”

That was an imprudent postscript.  If she had shown the letter to any one, she would have been warned of the blunder she was committing.  But the child had not much cunning, and wrote and posted the letter in the belief that her father would simply do as she asked him, and suspect nothing and ask no questions.

When old Mackenzie read that postscript he could only stare at the paper before him.

“Will there be anything wrong, sir?” said the tall keeper, whose keen gray eyes had been fixed on his master’s face.

The sound of Duncan’s voice startled and recalled Mr. Mackenzie, who immediately turned, and said lightly, “Wrong?  What wass you thinking would be wrong?  Oh, there is nothing wrong whatever.  But Mairi, she will be greatly surprised, and she is going to write no letters until she comes back to tell you what she has seen:  that is the message there will be for Scarlett.  Sheila—­she is very well.”

Duncan picked up the other letters and newspapers.

“You may tek them to the house, Duncan,” said Mr. Mackenzie; and then he added carelessly, “Did you hear when the steamer was thinking of leaving Stornoway this night?”

“They were saying it would be seven o’clock or six, as there was a great deal of cargo to go on her.”