ould be throwing
something at him, for I have my Uncle Jamie's temper they say, but I'm
nobody's wife, and for want of the asking I'm not likely to be."

"Well, we'll see," said the uncle oracularly. Then abruptly, "Have you
heard that your father's got an appointment?"

"I--I heard just a hint of it, of course he has not told me all about
it yet," she answered with a readiness that surprised herself when she
reflected on it later, for the news now so unexpectedly given her in the
momentary irritation of the old man was news indeed, and though she was
unwilling to let him see that it was so, a tremendous oppression seized
her; now she was to be lonely indeed. Half uttering her thoughts she
said, "I'll sooner go with him than stay here and----"

"Oh, there's no going yonder," said the uncle. "Sierra Leone is not a
healthy clime for men, let alone for women. That's where the man comes
in. He could hardly leave you alone to stravaige about the hills there
with all sorts of people from Glen Aray."

"The white man's grave!" said she, appalled.

"Ay!" said he, "but he's no ordinary white man; he's of good stock."

"And--and--he has found a man for me," she said bitterly. "Could I not
be left to find one for myself?"

Her uncle laughed his hoarse rude laugh again, and still combed his
tangled beard.

"Not to his fancy," he answered. "It's not every one who would suit." He
smiled grimly--a wicked elder man. "It's not every one would suit," he
repeated--as if he was anxious to let the full significance of what
he meant sink to her understanding. And he combed his rough beard with
large-jointed knotted fingers, and looked from under his heavy eyebrows.

"Seeing the business is so commercial," said she, "I'm sure that between
the two of you you will make a good bargain. I am not sure but I might
be glad to be anywhere out of this if father's gone and I not with
him." She said it with outer equanimity, and unable to face him a moment
longer without betraying her shame and indignation, she left him and
went to the corn-field where Black Duncan was working alone.

That dark mariner was to some extent a grieved sharer of her solitude
in Maam. The loss of the _Jean_ on Ealan Dubh had sundered him for ever
from his life of voyaging. The distant ports in whose dusks wild beasts
roared and spices filled the air were far back in another life for
him; even the little trips to the Clyde were, in the regrets of memory,
experiences