"A McHulish. Ay, one of the family. The McHulishes of Kelpie were his
own forebears. Eh, but he's a fine lad, and doin' well for the hotel."

Miss Elsie extinguished a sudden smile with her handkerchief as her
mother anxiously inquired, "And are the family as poor as that?"

"But I am not saying he's POOR, ma'am, no," replied the stranger, with
native caution. "What wi' tips and gratooities and percentages on the
teekets, it's a bit of money he'll be having in the bank noo."

The prophecy of Donald McHulish as to the weather came true. The next
morning was bright and sunny, and the boat to Kelpie Island--a large
yawl--duly received its complement of passengers and provision
hampers. The ladies had apparently become more tolerant of their fellow
pleasure-seekers, and it appeared that Miss Elsie had even overcome her
hilarity at the discovery of what "might have been" a relative in
the person of the porter Donald. "I had a long talk with him before
breakfast this morning," she said gayly, "and I know all about him. It
appears that there are hundreds of him--all McHulishes--all along the
coast and elsewhere--only none of them ever lived ON the island,
and don't want to. But he looks more like a 'laird' and a chief than
Malcolm, and if it comes to choosing a head of the family, remember,
maw, I shall vote solid for him."

"How can you go on so, Elsie?" said Mrs. Kirkby, with languid protest.
"Only I trust you didn't say anything to him of the syndicate. And,
thank Heaven! the property isn't here."

"No; the waiter tells me all the lovely things we had for breakfast came