The Reverend James Gillespie had a certain coarse fibre in him, which made it only natural that the snub direct he had received from Dr. Kennedy should make him more determined than he had been before on a tÊte-a-tÊte with Marjory. Consequently, much to her disgust, she found him solemnly waiting for her on a tombstone in the old burying-ground. The spectacle was an irritating one.

"Why didn't you go down with the others?" she asked crossly. "You know quite well I didn't need--anyone." A certain politeness prevented her employing the personal pronoun. Not that her lover would have cared, since he came of a class in which a certain amount of shrewishness in the wooed is not only considered correct, but, to a certain extent, propitious. And, although he had a veneer of polish on those points which had come into friction with his new world, love-making was not one of them. There he was, simply the cottier's son, full of inherited tradition in regard to rural coquetry. A fact which, at the outset, put Marjory at a disadvantage, since he refused to take the uncompromising hint, which she gave as soon as it dawned upon her what his purpose really was. And yet she could hardly refuse the man before he had asked her the momentous question. So it was with concentrated mixture of sheer wrath and intense amusement that she suddenly found him, as they paused by the wishing-well, on his knees before her declaiming his passion in set terms. The disposition to box his ears vanished in almost hysterical laughter, until the blank surprise on his face recalled her to the fact that the man was, at any rate, paying her the highest tribute in his power, and had a right to be heard. But not in that ridiculous position!

"You had better get up, Mr. Gillespie," she said peremptorily; "the ground is quite damp, and I can hear what you have to say much better when you are standing."

The facts were undeniable but the prosaic interruption had checked the flow of Mr. Gillespie's eloquence, and he stood red and stuttering until Marjory's slender stock of patience was exhausted, and she interrupted him, loftily:

"I suppose you meant just now to ask me to be your wife? If that was so----"

Her tone roused his temper. "Such was my intention," he interrupted sulkily. "I thought I spoke pretty plainly, and I fancy you must have been prepared for it."

Prepared! prepared for this!--this outrage on her girlish dreams. For it was her first proposal. What right had this man to thrust himself into her holy of holies and smirch the romance--the beauty of it all? It is the feeling with which many a girl listens for the first time to a lover.

"Prepared!" she echoed. "Are you mad? The very idea is preposterous!"

His face was a study. "The Bishop," he began, "and Lady George didn't seem to--to think----"

"Then I am to understand that you have consulted them?" she asked, in supreme anger; but his sense of duty came to his aid and made him bold.

"The Bishop, of course. Apart from his spiritual authority, he has claims upon me which I should be indeed ungrateful to ignore, and--and it meant much to be sure of your welcome."

The real good feeling underlying the stilted words went straight to Marjory's sense of justice, and made her, metaphorically, pass the Bishop. Besides, this little discussion had, as it were, taken the personal flavour from the point at issue and left her contemptuously tolerant, as she had been many and many a time over the Reverend James's views of life.

"And Lady George," she asked, categorically, magisterially; "has she also claims to be consulted?"

He coughed. "I rather think she broached the subject. She--she saw I loved you." And here the man himself broke through the clerical coating. "For I do love you. It isn't preposterous. I would do my best to make you a good husband, and--and you could teach the school children anything you liked."

"The Bishop wouldn't approve of that," she replied impatiently, yet in kinder tones. "Oh! Mr. Gillespie, it only shows how little you understand--how little you know. You would never have dreamed of such a thing, you and the Bishop, if you had had the least conception of what I really am. Perhaps I had no right to call it preposterous, but it is impossible, utterly impossible, and he ought to have seen it."

This slur on his patron's acumen roused the young man's doggedness. "I do not see why it should be either preposterous or impossible, unless you love someone else."

Then she turned and rent him, a whole torrent of indignant regret and dislike seeming to loosen her tongue. "Love! Oh! don't dare to mention the word. You don't understand it--it is profanation--I don't know anything about it myself, but this must be wrong. Ah! Mr. Gillespie, for goodness sake let us talk about something else!"

"Then I am to understand that you refuse," he began.

"Refuse! of course I refuse." She felt she would have liked to go down among the whole posse of people--Paul Macleod among the number, for all she knew--who had deemed such a thing possible, and cry: "Listen! I have refused him, do you hear? I hate him, and you, too." But the next moment the very thought of coming amongst them, with him, as if of her own free will, seemed to her unbearable, and she stopped short in the headlong course downwards, which she had begun.

"I suppose you couldn't help it," she said, with a catch in her breath, "and it is very kind of you, of course, and I am obliged and all that; but if you wouldn't mind leaving me I should prefer it. I don't want any tea, thanks; all I want is to get home."

"I--I am sorry," he stammered, utterly taken aback.

"Oh, don't be sorry!" she interrupted; "it has nothing to do with you, I assure you. Only it is so strange at first. Good-bye."

She was off at a dignified walk, with her head in the air, in an opposite direction before he had recovered from his mingled surprise and consternation at the effect his proposal had had on her. At any rate, she had not been indifferent, and this thought bringing a certain consolation with it, he made his way down to the picnic party, and was soon recovering his equanimity over scones and jam.

Marjory, on the other hand, felt her indignation grow as she hurried along, regardless of briars and brakes, to the shore beyond the Narrowest, where, out of sight of the others, she might hope to find a boat which would ferry her across the loch.

She found one, but hardly what she desired, since, as she made her way through the alder brakes to a projecting rock, she saw the "Tubhaneer" lying close in, with Paul Macleod and Alice Woodward in the stern, while her brother and two of the children were lolling about in the bows. They had been amusing themselves by tacking lazily about in the slack water.

She would have beaten a quick retreat had not Paul's eye been quicker and a swift turn of the rudder shown her that she was observed.

"Oh, don't trouble," she called, "I only want to get across, and I'll find one of the rowing boats about, I expect."

"They are above," he called back; "the tide is running out fast now, so I sent them to the upper bay. Just step on the further rock, if you can, and I'll run her up to it for a second."

There was something in the easy familiarity and decision of his manner which always soothed her into reasonable compliance, and the next minute she found herself apologising to Alice Woodward as the bellying sail slanted them across the loch.

"Oh, Alice won't mind," said Paul, cheerfully; "she likes sailing, don't you, Alice?"

Marjory looked at them, as they looked at each other, and was silent.

So that was settled. And that again was Love. Love and Marriage! What a ghastly farce it was when you came close to it!

"I'm sorry Kennedy has gone," remarked Paul, with his eyes on her face; "he is one of the best fellows I ever met. We shall have to tack, Sam; the tide is too strong."

Even so; the uncertain breeze failing ere they reached the slack water, they missed the landing-stage by a few yards and drifted into the shallow, seaweedy bay below. But Paul was over the side, knee-deep among the boulders, ere Marjory could expostulate. "Steady her a bit, Sam, you can get a grip on that oarweed. Now then, Miss Carmichael, if you please; I'm a duffer at steering, but I can lift you across easily, if you'll allow me--thanks."

She would have preferred to wade but for the opposition it would have provoked, and when, after a few slippery strides, he set her down on the shingle, turned to go with the briefest of acknowledgments.

"Wait a bit, please," he said, quietly. "Alice, I must see Miss Carmichael past the gate. MacInnes' bull is loose, and he isn't always quite canny. I'll be back in a minute. Keep the helm in, Sam, and don't let her drift; the current runs like a mill race round the point."

They were already well over the soft, sea-pink set turf; Marjory walking fast, with heightened colour.

"There is really no need for you to keep Miss Woodward waiting," she said impatiently. "I am quite accustomed to take care of myself."

"Alice will not mind."

Alice! Was he so eager for her to realise the new position that he must needs enforce the knowledge of it upon her in this fashion?

"I am glad Miss Woodward does not mind. I should."

"I am perfectly aware of that--you have not her philosophic acquiescence in the inevitable. It is a pity, for you fret yourself needlessly over people--who are not worth it."

Was he not worth it? The thought made her walk faster, until a sudden cry from behind made her companion pause and look back hastily.

"Good God! they'll be on the rocks," he cried, as, without an instant's delay, he dashed across the sward down to the shore, followed closely by Marjory, whose heart throbbed with sudden fear as she realised what had occurred. The boat which they had left safely in the backwater a minute before, was now racing down the stream with sails full set. How this had occurred was another question, which could not then be answered. Possibly Sam, proud of his new seamanship, had proposed a sail. Anyhow, there they were in the stream, and even without knowledge of that sunken shelf of rock half a mile further down the curve, over which the water rushed in a fall at this time of the tide, the young man sufficiently grasped the danger of the situation to be doing his best to lower the sail again. But the rope had kinked in the pulley, and the sudden discovery that he had forgotten to re-ship the rudder--which Paul had removed in order to bring the boat closer into shore--completed his consternation, rendering him absolutely helpless. All this Captain Macleod took in as he ran, and ere Marjory had reached him he had kicked off his boots and flung coat and waistcoat aside to free himself for the sharp, short struggle with the racing tide, in which lay his only chance of reaching the boat. Then he waded breast high in the slack water, and bided his time. It needed quick thought and quicker decision to seize the exact moment when, by one supreme effort, he could hope to succeed; and yet Marjory, watching with held breath, felt a wild rush of exultation, not of fear, as with one splendid stroke he shot far into the current. Swimming has always an effortless look, and the sweeping stream, carrying him down, remorselessly aided the illusion, so that not even Marjory, with her knowledge of the tide, guessed how nearly Paul Macleod's strength was spent as his hand touched the gunwale. But touch it he did, and the next moment, with Sam's help, he was aboard and busy at the sail, while Alice Woodward, deeming the danger over, began to cry helplessly, and even Marjory breathed again. Only for a moment, however; the next, though the sail was down, she realised that the boat was still in the current, and that Paul was vainly trying to tear up a thwart. The rudder! the rudder must have gone adrift in Sam's clumsy efforts to ship it!

Then they were no better off than before--nay, worse! since they were nearer those unseen rocks, and he--he was in danger now.

What was to be done? The thought was agonising as, scarcely knowing why, she kept abreast of the drifting boat, stumbling over the boulders, slipping on the seaweed, unable to see, to think, to do anything save listen to the ominously rising roar of the water which just beyond the turn fell in a regular cascade over that black jagged shelf of rock.

Ah, those helpless children! and Paul! She must do something--try to do something. And then on a sudden it came to her, as such things do come, as if they had all been settled beforehand clear and connected. At the last spit of land, not fifty yards above the fall, a streak of sand bank, capped by a pile of boulders, jutted out. If she could cross the dip and reach them! The herons used to sit there till well on to half-tide, and once she and Will had found oysters. The trivial thoughts came, as they will come in times of stress, flashing through the brain without obscuring it. Even as she thought them, her mind was busy over the one certainty, that somehow she must give help! By cutting across the next grassy curve she would be there in time. They might think she was deserting them. What then? If she could succeed even so far, he would know that it was not so--he would understand that she meant to be nearer--nearer.

He did; and a great glow of pride in her pluck came to him, when, as the boat swept round the curve, he saw her floundering, half swimming towards the boulders, and at the sight bent quickly for a coil of rope. But she had not thought of that--her one impulse having been to get nearer.

And now she is as far as she can go. Sheer at her feet, sliding among the stones, is the stream--below her is the roar and rush of the fall, save to her left, where it shelves to an eddy--above her is the boat drifting, drifting, more slowly now, for the shelf of rock backs the water a little. Then for the first time she realises what is to be done, for there is Paul at the bows with the coil poised in his hand.

Of course! that was it! that was it!

She dug her heels into the crevices of the boulders as she stood knee-deep among them, and kept her eyes upon his face.

"Now!"

As the cry left her lips, something like a black snake shot out through the air and flung itself across her breast, stinging and almost blinding her with pain; but there was no time for pain--no time! To seize it, bend it round the nearest boulder, and so twice round her waist with a loop through across her arm, took all her thoughts, all her strength, till, with a slow rasping noise of the wet rope slipping on stone, the strain began and the knot grew tight. Tight.--tighter--then a slip--then tighter again.

Pain--yes, it was pain. My God! what pain. Ah! another slip. But Paul--was that a knife he had in his hand? No! No! that should never be; there should be no more slipping even if she drowned for it. With more of sheer obstinacy than courage she flung herself sideways in the water among the rocks. So, with her whole body wedged in behind the two boulders, there could be no more slipping. There could be nothing more but life or death for both of them.

And it was life. Paul Macleod, standing knife in hand, ready to cut the rope, felt the claim of her pluck to fair play, and paused. She should do this thing if she could! And even as the decision came to him, came also the knowledge that she had done it, as, with a sidelong sway the boat brought up and drifted into slacker water.

Five minutes after he was untying the knot and binding his wet handkerchief round her bruised arm.

"Salt water," he said, a trifle unsteadily, "is the best thing in the world for bruises, and you are more bruised than hurt, I fancy. No! Blanche," for Alice Woodward's shrieks had by that time attracted plenty of help, and the boats had come over in hot haste from the other side; "don't fuss over Miss Carmichael with sal volatile and salts. She doesn't need it. But we are both wet through, and if she is wise she will walk home with me at once. It is better than waiting for the carriage."

"Yes, please," she replied, catching eagerly at the chance of escape from the general excitement and gratitude. "Indeed, I would rather, Lady George; I am not a bit hurt, only, as your brother says, wet through, so I had better get home at once."

They started off together at a brisk pace, but silently, until as they topped the nearest rise, the chill evening wind striking through her wet garments, made her shiver. Then he held out his hand to her suddenly, with a smile.

"Come! let us run. It will take off the stiffness and keep us both warm." So hand in hand, like a couple of children, they ran through the autumn woods, startling the roe deer from the oak coverts, and the sea-gulls from the little sheltered bays. Hand in hand, while the shadows darkened and the gold in the west faded to grey. Warm, human hand in hand, confident, content in their companionship, and seeking nothing more than that confidence, that content.

"I don't think you'll take cold," said Paul, with the blood tingling in his veins, and his breath coming fast.

"I don't think I shall," she laughed.