“Nonsense, man,” said the aggravating, but invisible one, “do not waste time.  Let us get on with the story.  You know what comes next. Revenons a nos saumons. Ha, Ha! spare the rod and spoil the book!”

I was vexed, but I had to obey, and this was the result: 

The pools were full of gleaming curves of silver, each one belonging to a separate salmon of gigantic size fresh run from the sea.  The foaming Black Water tumbled headlong over its rocks and down its narrow channel.  Donald, the big keeper, stood industriously upon the bank arranging flies.  “I hef been told,” he observed, “tat ta English will be coming to Styornoway, and there will be no more Gaelic spoken.  But perhaps it iss not true, for they will tell many lies.  I am a teffle of a liar myself.”

And lo! as we watched, the grey sky seemed to be split in two by an invisible wedge, and a purple gleam of light shot—­

“Stow that!” said the Voice, “I have allowed you to put in a patch of Gaelic, but I really cannot let you do any more sun-pictures.  Try and think that it is a close time for landscapes, and don’t let the light shoot again for a bit.”

“All right,” I retorted, not without annoyance, “but you’ll just have to make up your mind to lose that salmon.  It was a magnificent forty-pounder, and, if it hadn’t been for your ridiculous interruption, we should have landed him splendidly in another six pages.”

“As you like,” said the Voice.

CHAPTER IV.

And now our journey was drawing to a close.  Out of the solemn hush of the purple mountains we had passed slowly southwards back to the roar and the turmoil of the London streets.  And many friends had said farewell to us.  Sheila with her low, sweet brow, her exquisitely curved lips, and her soft blue eyes had held us enraptured, and we had wept with coquette, and fiercely cheered the whaup while he held WATTIE by the heels, and made him say a sweer.  And we had talked with MACLEOD and grown mournful with Madcap violet, and had seen many another fresh and charming face, and had talked Gaelic with gusto and discrimination.  And Queen TITA had sped with us, and we had adored Belle, and yet we cried for more.  But now the dream-journey was past, and lo! suddenly the whole heaven was blazing with light, and a bright saffron band lay across—­

“Steady there!” said the Voice.  “Remember your promise!”

The end.

* * * * *

Saints or sinners?

[By special Wire.]

Melbourne.—­It is said, on good authority, that the favourite books of the interesting prisoner now in custody are, the Pilgrim’s Progress, an Australian Summary of the Newgate Calendar, and the poetry of the late Dr. Watts.  He has also expressed himself as pleased with Mrs. Humphrey Ward’s latest work of fiction, though he does not quite approve of the theological opinions of the writer.