What Macleod saw, as he stood there absently staring at the bare wood, was very different.  It was a beautiful, comfortable saloon that he saw, all brightly furnished and gilded, and there was a dish of flowers—­heather and rowan-berries intermixed—­on the soft red cover of the table.  And who is this that is sitting there, clad in sailor-like blue and white, and laughing, as she talks in her soft English speech?  He is telling her that, if she means to be a sailor’s bride, she must give up the wearing of gloves on board ship, although, to be sure, those gloved small hands look pretty enough as they rest on the table and play with a bit of bell-heather.  How bright her smile is.  She is in a mood for teasing people.  The laughing face, but for the gentleness of the eyes, would be audacious.  They say that the width between those long-lashed eyes is a common peculiarity of the artist’s face; but she is no longer an artist; she is only the brave young yachtswoman who lives at Castle Dare.  The shepherds know her, and answer her in the Gaelic when she speaks to them in passing; the sailors know her, and would adventure their lives to gratify her slightest wish; and the bearded fellows who live their solitary life far out at Dubh Artach lighthouse, when she goes out to them with a new parcel of books and magazines, do not know how to show their gladness at the very sight of her bonnie face.  There was once an actress of the same name, but this is quite a different woman.  And to-morrow—­do you know what she is going to do to-morrow?—­to-morrow she is going away in this very yacht to a loch in the distant island of Lewis, and she is going to bring back with her some friends of hers who live there; and there will be high holiday at Castle Dare.  An actress?  Her cheeks are too sun-browned for the cheeks of an actress.

“Well, sir?” Hamish said, at length; and Macleod started.

“Very well, then,” he said, impatiently, “why don’t you go on deck and find out where the leakage of the skylight is?”

Hamish was not used to being addressed in this fashion, and walked away with a proud and hurt air.  As he ascended the companion-way, he was muttering to himself in his native tongue,—­

“Yes, I am going to find out where the leakage is, but perhaps it would be easier to find out below where the leakage is.  If there is something the matter with the keel, is it the cross-trees you will go to to look for it?  But I do not know what has come to the young master of late.”

When Keith Macleod was alone, he sat down on the wooden bench and took out a letter, and tried to find there some assurance that this beautiful vision of his would some day be realized.  He read it and re-read it; but his anxious scrutiny only left him the more disheartened.  He went up on deck.  He talked to Hamish in a perfunctory manner about the smartening up of the Umpire.  He appeared to have lost interest in that already.