And it was an enjoyable sort of idleness.  The river was full of life and animation as they glided along; fitful shadows and bursts of sunshine crossed the foliage and pasture-lands of the flat shores; the yellow surface of the stream was broken with gleams of silver; and always, when this somewhat tame, and peaceful, and pretty landscape tended to become monotonous, they had on this side or that the spectacle of one of those tall and beautiful yachts rounding on a new tack or creeping steadily up on one of her opponents.  They had a sweepstakes, of course, and Macleod drew the favorite.  But then he proceeded to explain to Miss White that the handicapping by means of time allowances made the choice of a favorite a mere matter of guesswork; that the fouling at the start was of but little moment:  and that on the whole she ought to exchange yachts with him.

“But if the chances are all equal, why should your yacht be better than mine?” said she.

The argument was unanswerable; but she took the favorite for all that, because he wished her to do so; and she tendered him in return the bit of folded paper with the name of a rival yacht on it.  It had been in her purse for a minute or two.  It was scented when she handed it to him.

“I should like to go to the Mediterranean in one of those beautiful yachts,” she said, looking away across the troubled waters, “and lie and dream under the blue skies.  I should want no other occupation than that:  that would be real idleness, with a breath of wind now and then to temper the heat; and an awning over the deck; and a lot of books.  Life would go by like a dream.”

Her eyes were distant and pensive.  To fold the bits of paper, she had taken off her gloves:  he regarded the small white hands, with the blue veins and the pink, almond-shaped nails.  She was right.  That was the proper sort of existence for one so fine and pale, and perfect even to the finger-tips.  Rose Leaf—­Rose Leaf—­what faint wind will carry you away to the south?

At this moment the band struck up a lively air.  What was it?

    “O this is no my ain lassie,
     Fair though the lassie be.”

“You are in great favor, to-day, Hugh,” Mrs. Ross said to her husband.  “You will have to ask the band-master to lunch with us.”

But this sharp alternative of a well-known air had sent Macleod’s thoughts flying away northward, to scenes far different from these flat shores, and to a sort of boating very different from this summer sailing.  Janet, too:  what was she thinking of—­far away in Castle Dare?  Of the wild morning on which she insisted on crossing to one of the Freshnist islands, because of the sick child of a shepherd there; and of the open herring smack, and she sitting on the ballast stones; and of the fierce gale of wind and rain that hid the island from their sight; and of her landing, drenched to the skin, and with the salt-water running from her hair and down her face?