came by
her beauty and her manners.

"Only to the kirk on the Sabbaths," she said, "when I can get some one
to watch the boat for me."

"I will watch the boat for you!" he said impulsively.

The girl looked distressed. This gay gentleman was making fun of her,
assuredly. She did not answer. Would he never go away?

"That is your way," she said, pointing along the track in front. Indeed,
there was but one way, and the information was superfluous.

The end of the white, rose-smothered boathouse was towards them. A tall,
bowed woman's figure passed quickly round the gable.

"Is that your aunt?" he asked.

"That is my aunt Annie," said the girl; "my aunt Barbara is confined to
her bed."

"And what is your name, if I may ask?"

The girl glanced at him. He was certainly not making fun of her now.

"My name is Grace Allen," she said.

They paced together up the path. The bridle rein slipped from his arm,
but his hand instinctively caught it, and Eulalie cropped crisply at the
grasses on the bank, unregarded of her master.

They did not shake hands when they parted, but their eyes followed each
other a long way.

"Where is the money?" said Aunt Barbara from her bed as Grace Allen came
in at the open door.

"Dear me!" said the girl, frightened: "I have forgotten to ask him for
it!"

"Did I ever see sic a lassie! Rin after him an' get it; haste ye fast."

But Gregory was far out of reach by the time Grace got to the door. The
sound of hoofs came from high up the wooded heights.

Gregory Jeffray reached the Barr in time for late breakfast. There was a
large house company. The men were prowling discontentedly about, looking
under covers or cutting slices from dishes on the sideboard; but the
ladies were brightly curious, and eagerly welcomed Gregory. He at least
did not rise with a headache and a bad temper every morning. They
desired an account of his morning's ride. But on the way home he had
changed his mind about telling of his adventure. He said that he had had
a pleasant ride. It had been a beautiful morning.

"But have you nothing whatever to tell us?" they asked; for, indeed,
they had a right to expect something.

Gregory said nothing. This was not usual, for at other times when he had
nothing to tell, it did not cost him much to invent something
interesting.

"You are very dull this morning, Sheriff," said the youngest daughter of
the house, who, being the baby and pretty, had grown pettishly
pri