I rose betimes the next morning to find the sun peeping above the wavy line of the Scottish hills far up the.  Solway, and the brigantine sliding smoothly along in the lee of the Galloway Rhinns.  And, though the month was March, the slopes of Burrow Head were green as the lawn of Carvel Hall in May, and the slanting rays danced on the ruffed water.  By eight of the clock we had crept into Kirkcudbright Bay and anchored off St. Mary’s Isle, the tide running ebb, and leaving a wide brown belt of sand behind it.

St. Mary’s Isle!  As we looked upon it that day, John Paul and I, and it lay low against the bright water with its bare oaks and chestnuts against the dark pines, ’twas perhaps as well that the future was sealed to us.

Captain Paul had conned the brigantine hither with a master’s hand; but now that the anchor was on the ground, he became palpably nervous.  I had donned again good MacMuir’s shore suit, and was standing by the gangway when the captain approached me.

“What’ll ye be doing now, Dickie lad?” he asked kindly.

What indeed!  I was without money in a foreign port, still dependent upon my benefactor.  And since he had declared his unwillingness to accept any return I was of no mind to go farther into his debt.  I thanked him again for his goodness in what sincere terms I could choose, and told him I should be obliged if he would put me in the way of working my passage to London upon some coasting vessel.  But my voice was thick, my affection for him having grown-past my understanding.

“Hoots!” he replied, moved in his turn, “whyles I hae siller ye shallna lack.  Ye maun gae post-chaise to London, as befits yere station.”

And scouting my expostulations, he commanded the longboat, bidding me be ready to go ashore with him.  I had nothing to do but to say farewell to MacMuir and Lowrie and Auctherlonnie, which was hard enough.  For the honest first mate I had a great liking, and was touched beyond speech when he enjoined me to keep his shore suit as long as I had want of it.

“But you will be needing it, MacMuir,” I said, suspecting he had no other.

“Haith!  I am but a plain man, Mr. Carvel, and ye can sen’ back the claw frae London, wi’ this geordie.”

He slipped a guinea into my hand, but this I positively refused to take; and to hide my feelings I climbed quickly over the side and into the stern of the boat, beside the captain, and was rowed away through the little fleet of cobles gathering about the ship.  Twisting my neck for a parting look at the John, I caught a glimpse of MacMuir’s ungainly shoulders over the fokesle rail, and I was near to tears as he shouted a hearty “God speed” after me.

As we drew near the town of Kirkcudbright, which lies very low at the mouth of the river Dee, I made out a group of men and women on the wharves.  The captain was silent, regarding them.  When we had got within twenty feet or so of the landing, a dame in a red woollen kerchief called out: