But just one little adventure before we leave dear old romantic Skye—for a time, at all events.
It was early morning.
Creggan had just finished a homely but delicious breakfast of mullet, crisp oat-cakes with butter, and sea-gulls' eggs, and after bidding Daddy good-bye, had launched his skiff, and with faithful Oscar in the bows might have been seen speeding shorewards over a blue but somewhat uncertain sea.
"Might have been seen," I said. Yes, and was seen. For look yonder, a tiny tottie of a child high on the cliff-top waving a white handkerchief to him.
Creggan replies, and at once Matty disappears. She is making a somewhat perilous descent a-down the high cliff, which here is of grass and rock commingled. She is there on the beach to meet Creggan and his collie doggie nevertheless. And now after the usual affectionate greetings she scrambles into the skiff, and, with reason or none, the lad has to take her for a little row.
They are soon on shore again, for Creggan has promised to guide Mr. Nugent far over the mountains, in order that he may make some additions to his collection of Skye flora.
"Ah, welcome, Creggan lad!" he cried, as the latter, hand in hand with Matty, came up the little path that led to the bungalow. "What do you think of the weather, my child of the ocean wave?" he added merrily. For despite the severe style of his whiskers he could be right merry when he liked.
"I don't quite like it," answered Creggan dubiously.
"And why, lad?"
"Well, sir, you see it is nine now, and the hills haven't taken their night-caps[[1]] off yet. That is one thing. Then the sea is a bit lumpy, and every now and then comes a puff, making big cat's-paws on it."