So the days passed, until one evening as they trudged home from an unsuccessful raid on the river, Mr. Gillespie remarked that the herring were in at Craignish, and the mackerel often came at the back of the herring, so, maybe, it would be worth while to have a try at them.
"Better than the river, anyhow," grumbled Will, who, even with the red-tailed fly, felt the horrid weight of an empty creel on his shoulders.
Paul looked at Marjory. It had come to that in most things by this time, and as often as not, as now, no words were necessary. "Then I will tell John Macpherson to have the boat ready to-morrow, for it is my last day--of leisure, I mean. My sister comes on Saturday, my guests follow on Monday, and after that--the deluge, I suppose."
"I should not wonder," remarked Will, gravely; "the midges were awful to-day."
Both Paul and Marjory laughed; they could not help it, despite their vague regret that holiday time was over.
[CHAPTER X.]
Paul's last day was one of those never-to-be-forgotten days, when the mist lies in light wreaths below the mountain tops, which rise clear and sharp against an intense blue sky; when masses of white cloud hang in mid-air, bringing with each new moment some fresh beauty, born of shadow, to sea and shore; when a cool breeze blows unevenly, every now and again darkening the water to a purple, and cresting the waves with foam-streaks edged with turquoise.
"None too soon," said Paul, briefly, as the "Tubhaneer" (so called from her washing-tub-like build) cast off her moorings, and stood out for the middle of the loch. "I told you it would be the deluge after to-day, Miss Carmichael. We shall have rain to-morrow."
Will nodded his head.
"Oh, don't talk of to-morrow!" said Marjory, quickly; "to-day is enough, surely."