turning to the broad plain of
the sea, "but it is not much that is in this country that is like the
Lewis: sometimes I think I shall be a stranger when I go back to the
Lewis, and the people will scarcely know me, and everything will be
changed."

He looked at her for a second or two. Then he laid down his pipe,
which had not been lit, and said to her gravely, "I want you to tell
me, Sheila, why you have got into a habit lately of talking about many
things, and especially about your home in the North, in that sad way.
You did not do that when you came to London first; and yet it was then
that you might have been struck and shocked by the difference. You had
no home-sickness for a long time--But is it home-sickness, Sheila?"

How was she to tell him? For an instant she was on the point of giving
him all her confidence; and then, somehow or other, it occurred to her
that she would be wronging her husband in seeking such sympathy from a
friend as she had been expecting, and expecting in vain, from him.

"Perhaps it is home-sickness," she said in a low voice, while she
pretended to be busy tightening up the mainsail sheet. "I should like
to see Borva again."

"But you don't want to live there all your life?" he said. "You know
that would be unreasonable, Sheila, even if your husband could manage
it; and I don't suppose he can. Surely your papa does not expect you
to go and live in Lewis always?"

"Oh, no," she said eagerly. "You must not think my papa wishes
anything like that. It will be much less than that he was thinking of
when he used to speak to Mr. Lavender about it. And I do not wish
to live in the Lewis always: I have no dislike to London--none at
all--only that--that--" And here she paused.

"Come, Sheila," he said in the old paternal way to which she had been
accustomed to yield up all her own wishes in the old days of their
friendship, "I want you to be frank with me, and tell me what is the
matter. I know there is something wrong: I have seen it for some time
back. Now, you know I took the responsibility of your marriage on
my shoulders, and I am responsible to you, and to your papa and to
myself, for your comfort and happiness. Do you understand?"

She still hesitated, grateful in her in-most heart, but still doubtful
as to what she should do.

"You look on me as an intermeddler," he said with a smile.

"No, no," she said: "you have always been our best friend."

"But I have intermeddled none the