Mackenzie mixed another tumbler of toddy, and began to expound to
Ingram his views upon deer-forests and sheep-farms. Ingram lit a
cigar, stretched out his legs and proceeded to listen with much
complacent attention. As for Lavender, he sat a while, hearing vaguely
the sounds of his companions' voices, and then, saying he was a trifle
tired, he left and went to his own room. The moon was then shining
clearly over Suainabhal, and a pathway of glimmering light lay across
Loch Roag.

He went to bed, but not to sleep. He had resolved to ask Sheila
Mackenzie to be his wife, and a thousand conjectures as to the future
were floating about his imagination. In the first place, would she
listen to his prayer? She knew nothing of him beyond what she might
have heard from Ingram. He had had no opportunity, during their
friendly talking, of revealing to her what he thought of herself; but
might she not have guessed it? Then her father--what action might not
this determined old man take in the matter? Would his love for his
daughter prompt him to consider her happiness alone? All these things,
however, were mere preliminaries, and the imagination of the young man
soon overleapt them. He began to draw pictures of Sheila as his wife
in their London home, among his friends, at Hastings, at Ascot, in
Hyde Park. What would people say of the beautiful sea-princess with
the proud air, the fearless eyes and the gentle and musical voice?
Hour after hour he lay and could not sleep: a fever of anticipation,
of fear and of hope combined seemed to stir in his blood and throb in
his brain. At last, in a paroxysm of unrest, he rose, hastily dressed
himself, stole down stairs, and made his way out into the cool air of
the night.

It could not be the coming dawn that revealed to him the outlines of