she was administering counsel of the
gravest kind, in tones the most solemn. The counsel, we need scarcely
say, gave unquestionable proof that her mother's admonitions to herself
had been thoroughly understood, though not always acted on. Flo was in
the midst of one of her most pathetic appeals to Blackie to be "dood,"
when her mother entered hastily.

"Come with me, darling, to visit poor old Mrs Donaldson. She is not
very well, I hear."

Flo required no second bidding, for she was extremely fond of the
keeper's mother--and love needs no persuasion.

As we have said, Mrs Donaldson's little cottage stood behind that of
her son Ivor. It was very small, consisting of only one apartment with
a box bed and a few articles of old furniture, the most cherished of
which was a little clock with a staring face, and a poor landscape on
it.

"What caused the bruise, Maggie?" asked Mrs Gordon, after much talk on
the subject of fomentations and bandages. The old woman hesitated to
tell, but after a little pressing she said, in half apologetic
tone,--"Weel, mem, it was na Ivor's fau't, but the day before yesterday
he cam in--fou--ye ken he's fond o' his glass, mem, an' he was swingin'
aboot his airms, poor falla, an' withoot the least intention, his haund
cam doon wi' sik a ding on my heed that knockit me doon. But he kens na
aboot it, so ye'll no speak o't to him--or to the laird."

"You may depend upon it, poor Maggie, that I will not. My mentioning it
could do no good. And, as you say, Ivor was not quite himself at the
time."

"Thank'ee, mem, that's just it. An' he's the best sons to me--_whan
he's sober_."

Soon afterwards a shout outside told that the sportsmen had returned
from the hills, so, bidding the old woman good-bye, Mrs Gordon and her
sympathetic child returned to the house.

CHAPTER NINE.

A QUIET DAY WITH A STIRRING TERMINATION.

What fisher does not know the charm, the calm delight, of a quiet day by
the river-side, after, it may be, months of too much contact with
society? On such an occasion a congenial comrade is an advantage, but
unless the comrade be congenial, one is better alone.

This may sound selfish to some ears, but is it really so? When a man
has all but immolated himself for ten or eleven months, it may be, on
the altar of business, art, and social duty, is a tremendous thirst for
Nature and solitude altogether selfish? We think not. And evidently
MacRummle thought not, as