"Tush, man! Mules mak' an unco fuss about their ancestors having been horses. It has come to this, Geordie, thou must be laird of thyself before I'll trust thee again wi' ony craft o' mine." Then Peter Sinclair lifted his papers, and looking the discharged sailor steadily in the face, bid him "Go on his penitentials, and think things o'er a bit."

Geordie Twath went sullenly out, but Peter was rather pleased with himself. He believed that he had done his duty in a satisfactory manner. And if a man was in a good temper with himself, it was just the kind of evening to increase his satisfaction. The grey old town of Kirkwall lay in almost supernatural beauty; the wondrous glory of the mellow gloaming blending with soft green, and rosy-red spears of light, that shot from east to west, or charged upward to the zenith. The great herring-fleet, outside the harbour, was as motionless as a painted fleet upon a painted ocean. The men were sleeping, or smoking upon the piers; not a foot fell upon the flagged streets, and the only murmur of sound was round the public fountain, where a few women were perched on the bowl's edge, knitting and gossiping.

Peter Sinclair was perhaps not a man inclined to analyze such things; but they had their influence over him; for as he drifted slowly home in his skiff he began to pity Geordie's four motherless bairns, and to wonder if he had been as patient with him as he might have been.

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'An' yet," he murmured, "there's the loss on the goods, an' the loss o' time, an' the boat to steek afresh, forbye the danger to life! Na, na, I'm no called upon to put life in peril for a glass o' whiskey.'

Then he lifted his head, and there, on the white sands, stood his daughter Margaret. He was conscious of a great thrill of pride as he looked at her; for Margaret Sinclair, even among the beautiful women of the Orcades, was most beautiful of all. In a few minutes he had fastened his skiff at a little jetty, and was walking with her over the springy heath towards a very pretty house of white stone. It was his own house, and he was proud of it also, but not half so proud of the house as of its tiny garden; for there, with great care, and at great cost, he had managed to rear a few pansies, lilies-of-the-valley, stocks, and other hardy English flowers.

Margaret and he stooped lovingly over them, and it was wonderful to see how Peter's face softened, and how gently the great rough hands, that had been all day handling smoked geesc and fish, touched these frail, exquisite blossoms.

"Eh, lassie! I could most greet wi' joy to sec the bonnie bit things; when I can get time, I'se e'en go with thee to Edinburgh; I'd like. weel to see such gardens, an' fields, an' trees, as I hear thee tell on."

Then Margaret began again to describe the greenhouses, the meadows, the wheat-fields, the forests of oak and beeches, she had seen during her school-days in Edinburgh. Peter listened to her as if she was telling a wonderful fairy story, but he liked it, and as he cut slice after slice from his smoked goose, he enjoyed her talk

of roses and apple-blossoms, and smacked his lips for the thousandth time when she described a peach, and said, "It tasted, dear father, as if it had been grown in the garden of Eden." "I wonder when Ranald's coming home again!" Peter said after a pause.

"Ranald is all right, father." "A' wrong, thou means, lassie. There's three vessels waiting to be loaded, an' the books are sae far ahint that I kenna whether I'm losing or making. Now, whare is he?"

"Not far away. He will be at the Stones of Stennis this week some time, with an Englishman he fell in with at Perth."

"I wonder, now, was it for my sins or his ain that the lad has sic auld-warld notions. There is na a pagan altar-stane 'tween John o' Groat's and Lamba Ness he doesna run after. I wish he were as anxious to serve in the Lord's temple; I would build him a kirk, an' a manse for it."

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We'll all be proud of Ranald yet, father. The Sinclairs have been fighting and making money for centuries: it is a sign of grace to have a scholar and a poet at last, among them."

Peter grumbled. His ideas of poetry were limited by the Scotch psalms, and, as for scholarship, he asserted that his books were better kept when he used his own method of tallies and crosses. Then he remembered Geordie Twath's misfortune, and had his little grumble out on that subject.

"Boat and goods might hae been a total loss, no to speak o' the lives o' Geordie and the four lads wi' him, and a' for the sake o' a drap mair than eneuch!"

Margaret looked at the brandy-bottle standing at her father's elbow, and though she did not speak, the look annoyed him.

"You arena to even my glass wi' his, lassie. I ken when to stop; Geordie never does."

"It is a common fault in more things than drinking, father. When Wagnus Hay has struck the first blow, he is quite ready to draw his dirk, and strike the last one; and Paul Snackoll, though he has made gold and to spare, will just go on making gold until death takes the balance out of his hands. There are few folk that in all things offend not."

She looked so noble standing before him, so fair and tall, her hair yellow as dawn, her eyes cool, and calm, and blue as night; her whole attitude so serene, assured, and majestic, that Peter rose uneasily, left his glass unfinished, and went away with a very confused "goodnight."

In the morning the first thing he did when he reached his shop was to send for the offending sailor.

"Geordie, my Margaret says there are plenty folk as bad as thou art; so, thou'lt just see to the steeking o' the boat, and be ready to sail her -or upset her-in ten days again."

"I'll keep her right side up for Margaret Sinclair's sake-tell her I said that, master."

"I'se do no promising for thee, Geordie. Between wording and working is a lang road, but Kirkwall and Stromness kens thee for an honest lad, and thou wilt mind this, things promised are things due."