“Miss Sheila!” said Mr. Mackenzie impatiently.  “Is it an infant you are, that you will call a married woman by such a name?”

Duncan had never been checked before for a habit which was common to the whole island of Borva.

“There iss no bad news,” continued Mackenzie impatiently.  “Is it a story you would like to tek back to the people of Borvabost?”

“It wass no thought of such a thing wass come into my head, sir,” said Duncan.  “There iss no one in sa island would like to carry bad news about Miss Sheila; and there iss no one in sa island would like to hear it—­not any one whatever—­and I can answer for that.”

“Then hold your tongue about it.  There is no bad news from Sheila,” said Mackenzie; and Duncan relapsed into silence, not very well content.

By dint of very hard driving indeed Mr. Mackenzie just caught the boat as she was leaving Stornoway harbor, the hurry he was in fortunately saving him from the curiosity and inquiries of the people he knew on the pier.  As for the frank and good-natured captain, he did not show that excessive interest in Mr. Mackenzie’s affairs that Duncan had feared; but when the steamer was well away from the coast and bearing down on her route to Skye, he came and had a chat with the King of Borva about the condition of affairs on the west of the island; and he was good enough to ask, too, about the young lady that had married the English gentleman.  Mr. Mackenzie said briefly that she was very well, and returned to the subject of the fishing.

It was on a wet and dreary morning that Mr. Mackenzie arrived in London; and as he was slowly driven through the long and dismal thoroughfares with their gray and melancholy houses, their passers-by under umbrellas, and their smoke and drizzle and dirt, he could not help saying to himself, “My poor Sheila!” It was not a pleasant place surely to live in always, although it might be all very well for a visit.  Indeed, this cheerless day added to the gloomy fore-bodings in his mind, and it needed all his resolve and his pride in his own diplomacy to carry out his plan of approaching Sheila.

When he got down to Pembroke road he stopped the cab at the corner and paid the man.  Then he walked along the thoroughfare, having a look at the houses.  At length he came to the number mentioned in Sheila’s letter, and he found that there was a brass plate on the door bearing an unfamiliar name.  His suspicions were confirmed.

He went up the steps and knocked:  a small girl answered the summons.  “Is Mrs. Lavender living here?” he said.

She looked for a moment with some surprise at the short, thick-set man, with his sailor costume, his peaked cap, and his voluminous gray beard and shaggy eyebrows; and then she said that she would ask, and what was his name?  But Mr. Mackenzie was too sharp not to know what that meant.

“I am her father.  It will do ferry well if you will show me the room.”