Courage, True Hearts: Sailing in Search of Fortune. Stables Gordon

her sweetest smile, "just let them sweat!"

      "Give 'em a bill, I suppose," the colonel says, as if speaking to himself.

      And the letter is put aside.

      So one way or another Trelawney got through his pile at last, and settled down to serious eating, that is, he made a hearty meal from a Londoner's point of view. Then he lit a cigarette.

      Well the month of January was raw and disagreeable, and seldom was there a day without a fog either white or yellow.

      Is it any wonder that, brought up in a clear transparent atmosphere among breezes that blew over heathy hills, and were laden with the balsamic odour of the pine-trees, Duncan and Conal began to languish and long for home.

      With great candour they told "Auntie" they wanted to get home to enjoy skating, tobogganing, and white-hare shooting; and she promised to speak to the colonel.

      "We will be so sorry to leave you, auntie, for you've been so good to us."

      "And I shall miss you, boys, sadly."

      "Yes, I hope so. It will give Conal and me pleasure to think that you like us. And of course Frank comes with us."

      "I fear it is too cold for Frank."

      "Oh no, auntie dear. One never feels cold in Scotland, the air is so bracing, you know."

      So that very day it was all arranged, and Laird M'Vayne had a letter to that effect.

      The parting was somewhat sorrowful, but the boys did not say "Farewell!" only "Au revoir", because both hoped to return, and by that time they declared that Frank would be as hardy as-as-well, as hardy as Highlanders usually are.

      The last things that the boys bought in London were skates. Of course they could have got those in Edinburgh, but not so cheaply, and for this reason: there did not seem to be the ghost of a chance of any skating for the Londoners this season, and so they got the skates for an old song.

      They went by sea to Edinburgh. The Queen was at present all but a cargo-boat, and besides the three lads and Vike, there was only one other passenger, an old minister of the Church of Scotland.

      The same skipper and the same mate, and delighted they were to see the boys again, and they gave Frank a right hearty welcome on their account.

      But Frank had that with him which secured him a welcome wherever he went-his fiddle, and when after dinner he played them some sad and plaintive old Scottish airs, all were delighted, and the minister got up from his chair, and, grasping the boy's hand, thanked him most effusively.

      "Dear lad," he said, "you have brought the moisture to my eyes, although I had thought my fountain of tears had dried up many and many a long year ago."

      Now here is something strange; although, when once fairly out of the Thames' mouth and at sea, it was blowing a head wind, with waves houses high, Frank was not even squeamish. I have seen many cases like this, though I must confess they are somewhat rare.

      Nor was the minister ill; but then, like the Scotch boys, he was sea-fast, having done quite a deal of coasting.

      "How goes the project you have in view?" asked Duncan that evening of the skipper.

      "Well," was the reply, "it is not what the French call a fait accompli just yet, but it is bound to be so before very long."

      "Well, my 42nd cousin Frank here would like to go to sea also. Could you do with the three of us?"

      "Yes. You must be prepared to rough it a bit, and we'll be rather cramped for room, but we shall manage. Eh, mate?"

      "I'm sure we shall, and this young gentleman must take his fiddle."

      "And I'll take the bagpipes," said Duncan, laughing.

      "Hurrah!" cried the mate. "Won't we astonish the king of the Cannibal Islands? Eh?"

      It was Frank's turn to cry "Hurrah!"

      "But," he added, "will there be real live cannibals, sir?"

      "Certainly. What good would dead ones be?"

      "And is there a chance of being caught and killed and eaten, and all the like of that?"

      "Ay, though it isn't pleasant to look forward to. Only mind this: I may tell you for your comfort that although, after being knocked on the head with a nullah, your Highland cousin would be trussed at once and hung up in front of a clear fire until done to a turn, you yourself would be kept alive for weeks. Penned up, you know, like a chicken."

      "But why?"

      "Oh, they always do that with London boys, because they are generally too lean for decent cooking, and need too much basting. You would be penned up and fattened with rice and bananas."

      "Humph!" said Frank, and after a pause of thoughtfulness, "Well, I suppose there is some consolation in being kept alive a bit; but bother it all, I don't half like the idea of being a side dish."

      The weather was more favourable during this voyage, and though bitterly cold, all the boys took plenty of exercise on the quarter-deck, and so kept warm. So, too, did the old minister, who was really a jolly fellow, and did not preach at them nor dilate on the follies of youth. Moreover, this son of the Auld Kirk enjoyed a hearty glass of toddy before turning in.

      Leith at last!

      And yonder, waiting anxiously on the quay, was Laird M'Vayne himself.

      His broad smile grew broader when his boys waved their hands to him, and soon they were united once again.

      CHAPTER IV. – WILD SPORTS ON MOORLAND AND ICE

      Pretty little Flora M'Vayne was half afraid of the London boy at first. The violin won her heart, however, and before retiring for the night, when shaking hands with Frank, she nodded seriously as she told him:

      "I'm not sure I sha'n't love you soon; Viking likes you, so you must be good."

      Well, Frank was an impressionable boy, and he was very much struck by the child's innocent ways and beauty.

      "I'm not sure," he said in reply, "that we won't be sweethearts before I leave. How would you like that?"

      She shook her head. "No, no," she said, "you are very nice, but you are only an English boy. Good-night!"

      "Good-night!"

      I do not think that any two boys were ever more glad to find themselves back once more, safely under the parental roof-tree, than Duncan and Conal. They had made many friends in London, it is true, and spent many a happy evening therein, and these they could look back to with pleasure and with a sigh; but the city and town itself, with all its strange ways, the ignorance of its lower classes, its murdered twangy English, its filth and its festering iniquities-they positively shuddered when they thought of.

      God seemed nowhere in London. Here in this wild and beautiful land He appeared to be everywhere.

      The pure and virgin snow that clad the moors and mountains was a carpet on which angels might tread; the tiny budlets already appearing on the trees were scattered there by His own hand; yea, and the very wind that sighed and moaned through the forest was the breath of heaven.

      And when the sun had gone down behind the waves of the western ocean did not

      "The moon take up the wondrous tale

      And nightly to the listening earth

      Repeat the story of her birth,

      While all the stars that round her burn,

      And all the planets in their turn

      Confirm the story as they roll,

      And spread the truth from pole to pole".

      Yes, in wild and silent lands, God seems very near. It was in a country like this that the immortal poet Lord Byron wrote much of his best poetry. And no bolder song did he ever pen than Loch-na-garr. Near here many of his ancestors-the Gordons-were laid to rest after the fatal field of Culloden. In one verse he says-

      "Ill-starred, though brave, did no vision foreboding

      Tell