No sooner had they got down to the landing-step on the Lambeth side of the river than they were descried from the deck of the beautiful little steamer, and a boat was sent ashore for them.  Colonel Ross was standing by the tiny gangway to receive them.  They got on board, and passed into the glass-surrounded saloon.  There certainly was something odd in the notion of being anchored in the middle of the great city—­absolutely cut off from it, and enclosed in a miniature floating world, the very sound of it hushed and remote.  And, indeed, on this strange morning the big town looked more dream-like than usual as they regarded it from the windows of this saloon—­the buildings opal-like in the pale fog, a dusky glitter on the high towers of the Houses of Parliament, and some touches of rose red on the ripples of the yellow water around them.

Right over there was the very spot to which he had idly wandered in the clear dawn to have a look at the peacefully flowing stream.  How long ago?  It seemed to him, looking back, somehow the morning of life—­shining clear and beautiful, before any sombre anxieties and joys scarcely less painful had come to cloud the fair sky.  He thought of himself at that time with a sort of wonder.  He saw himself standing there, glad to watch the pale and glowing glory of the dawn, careless as to what the day might bring forth; and he knew that it was another and an irrecoverable Macleod he was mentally regarding.

Well, when his friend Ogilvie arrived, he endeavored to assume some greater spirit and cheerfulness, and they had a pleasant enough luncheon party in the gently moving saloon.  Thereafter Colonel Ross was for getting up steam and taking them for a run somewhere; but at this point Macleod begged to be excused for running away; and so, having consigned Major Stuart to the care of his host for the moment, and having bade good-by to Ogilvie, he went ashore.  He made his way up to the cottage in South Bank.  He entered the drawing-room and sat down, alone.

When she came in, she said, with a quick anxiety, “You are not ill?”

“No, no,” he said rising, and his face was haggard somewhat; “but—­but it is not pleasant to come to say good-by—­”

“You must not take it so seriously as that,” she said, with a friendly smile.

“My going away is like going into a grave,” he said, slowly.  “It is dark.”

And then he took her two hands in his, and regarded her with such an intensity of look that she almost drew back, afraid.

“Sometimes,” he said, watching her eyes, “I think I shall never see you again.”

“Oh, Keith,” said she, drawing her hands away, and speaking half playfully, “you really frighten me!  And even if you were never to see me again, wouldn’t it be a very good thing for you?  You would have got rid of a bad bargain.”

“It would not be a very good thing for me,” he said, still regarding her.

“Oh, well, don’t speak of it,” said she, lightly; “let us speak of all that is to be done in the long time that must pass before we meet—­”