“No, I shall do that myself.”
“Come, Rose,” called Lyndsay.
She turned and went away with her aunt. In a few moments Carington saw the little fleet of canoes scattering, as the paddles rose and fell. Then they entered the swift current, and were lost to view around the bend in the river,—the boys calling out a loud “good-by,” and then breaking out into their favorite song:
“Seven braw sons had gude Lord James,
Their worth no Scot will gainsay;
But who shall match the bonny eyes
Of gentle Rose a Lyndsay?”
“Who, indeed!” said Carington, as he shut his field-glass with a snap.
CHAPTER XXXI
