m," returned her visitor;
"yet they may be granted even while we are asking. I don't know how it
is, but I feel sure that Jesus will save your son."

Poor little Flo, who had been deeply affected by the terrible appearance
of her favourite Ivor, and who had never seen him in such a plight
before, quietly slipped out of old Molly's hut and went straight to that
of the keeper. She found him seated on a chair with his elbows on his
knees, his forehead resting on his hands, and his strong fingers
grasping his hair as if about to tear it out by the roots. Flo, who was
naturally fearless and trustful, ran straight to him and placed a hand
on his shoulder. He started and looked round.

"Bairn! bairn!" he said grasping her little head, and kissing her
forehead, "what brings ye here?"

"Muzzer says she is _sure_ Jesus will save you; so I came to tell you,
for muzzer _never_ says what's not true."

Having delivered her consoling message, Flo ran back at once to Molly's
cottage with the cheerful remark that it was all right now, for she had
told Ivor that he was going to be saved!

While Mrs Gordon and Flo were thus engaged on shore, the boat party
were rowing swiftly down the loch to the little hamlet of Drumquaich.
The weather was magnificent. Not a breath of air stirred the surface of
the sea, so that every little white cloud in the sky was perfectly
reproduced in the concave below. The gulls that floated on the white
expanse seemed each to be resting on its own inverted image, and the
boat would have appeared in similar aspect but for the shivering of the
mirror by its oars.

"Most appropriate type of Sabbath rest," said Jackman.

"Ay, but like all things here pelow," remarked Ian Anderson, who
possessed in a high degree the faculty of disputation, "it's not likely
to last long."

"What makes you think so, Ian?" asked Milly, who sat in the stern of the
boat between John Barret and Aggy Anderson.

"Well, you see, muss," began Ian, in his slow, nasal tone, "the gless
has bin fallin' for some time past, an'--Tonal', poy, mind your helm;
see where you're steerin' to!"

Donald, who steered, was watching with profound interest the operations
of Junkie, who had slily and gravely fastened a piece of twine to a back
button of MacRummle's coat, and tied him to the thwart on which he sat.
Being thus sternly asked where he was steering to, Donald replied, "Oo,
ay," and quickly corrected the course.

"But surely," retur