of what would happen when Jim met him; but now there
seemed to be something cowardly in this avoidance of him. I was angry
and hurt and sore, and I went out into the open without a word to my
father, and climbed up on to the moors to cool my flushed face.

When I got up to Corriemuir I caught my last glimpse of Cousin Edie.
The little cutter still lay where she had anchored, but a rowboat was
pulling out to her from the shore. In the stern I saw a flutter of red,
and I knew that it came from her shawl. I watched the boat reach the
yacht and the folk climb on to her deck. Then the anchor came up, the
white wings spread once more, and away she dipped right out to sea.
I still saw that little red spot on the deck, and de Lapp standing
beside her. They could see me also, for I was outlined against the sky,
and they both waved their hands for a long time, but gave it up at last
when they found that I would give them no answer.

I stood with my arms folded, feeling as glum as ever I did in my life,
until their cutter was only a square hickering patch of white among the
mists of the morning. It was breakfast time and the porridge upon the
table before I got back, but I had no heart for the food. The old folk
had taken the matter coolly enough, though my mother had no word too
hard for Edie; for the two had never had much love for each other, and
less of late than ever.

"There's a letter here from him," said my father, pointing to a note
folded up on the table; "it was in his room. Maybe you would read it to
us."

They had not even opened it; for, truth to tell, neither of the good
folk were very clever at reading ink, though they could do well with a
fine large print.

It was addressed in big letters to "The good people of West Inch;" and
this was the note, which lies before me all stained and faded as I
write:

"My friends,--
I didn't thought to have left you so suddenly, but the matter was
in other hands than mine. Duty and honour have called me back to my
old comrades. This you will doubtless understand before many days
are past. I take your Edie with me as my wife; and it may be that
in some more peaceful time you will see us again at West Inch.
Meanwhile, accept the assurance of my affection, and believe me that
I shall never forget the quiet months which I spent with you, at the
time when my life would have been worth a week at the utmost had I
been taken by the