he did not go to the ritual service in the
Cathedral. If she had no such excuse, she went there with her husband
and family. Then doubtless her prayer was the prayer of Naaman, that
when "she bowed herself in the House of Rimmon, the Lord would pardon
her for it."

No one could deny her beauty, though it was of the Highland Scotch
type, and therefore a great contrast to the Orcadean blonde. She was
slender and dark, with plentiful, glossy, black hair, and soft brown
eyes. Her face was oval and richly coloured. Her temperament was frank
and domestic; yet she had a romantic side, and a full appreciation of
what she called "a proper man."

They had had many children, but four were dead, and three daughters
were married and living in Edinburgh and Lerwick, and two sons had
emigrated to Canada; while the youngest of all, a boy of fifteen, was
a midshipman on Her Majesty's man-of-war, _Vixen_, so that only one
boy and one girl were with their parents. These were Boris, the eldest
son, who was sailing his own ship on business ventures to French and
Dutch ports, and Thora, the only unmarried daughter. And in 1853 these
five persons lived happily enough together in the Ragnor House,
Kirkwall.

One day in the spring of 1853 Conall Ragnor was at the rear door of
his warehouse. The sea was lippering against its foundation, and he
stood with his hand on his left hip, as with a raised head and keen
eyes, he searched the far horizon.

In a few minutes he turned with a look of satisfaction. "Well and
good!" he thought. "Now I will go home. I have the news I was watching
for." Anon he looked at his watch and reflecting a moment assured
himself that Boris and the _Sea Gull_ would be safely at anchor by
five o'clock.

So with an air of satisfaction he walked through the warehouse,
looking critically at the men cleaning and packing feathers, or dried
fish, or fresh eggs. There was no sign of slacking in this department,
and he turned into the shop where men were weighing groceries and
measuring cloth. All seemed well, and after a short delay in his own
particular office he went comfortably home.

Meanwhile his daughter Thora was talking of him, and wondering what
news he would bring them, and Mistress Ragnor, in a very smart cap and
a gown of dark violet silk, was knitting by the large window in the
living room--a very comfortable room carpeted with a good Kilmarnock
"three-ply" and curtained with red moreen. There were a few sea