Here's a health to old Ireland: may she ne'er be dismayed;
Then pale grew the cheeks of the Irish Brigade!
The clouds are assuming substance now: they are no mere flat washes but accurately drawn objects that have their fore-shortening like anything else. And if Miss Avon may be vaguely conscious that had our young Doctor been on board she would not have been left so long alone, that had nothing to with her work. The mornings on which he used to join her on deck, and chat to her while she painted, seem far away now. He and she together would see Dunvegan no more.
But who is this who most cautiously comes up the companion, bearing in his hand a cup and saucer?
"Miss Avon," says he, with a bright laugh, "here is the first cup of tea I ever made; are you afraid to try it?"
"Oh, dear me," said she, penitently, "did I make any noise in getting my things below?"
"Well," he says, "I thought I heard you; and I knew what you would be after; and I got up and lit the spirit-lamp."
"Oh, it is so very kind of you," she says—for it is really a pretty little attention on the part of one who is not much given to shifting for himself on board.
Then he dives below again and fetches her up some biscuits.
"By Jove," he says, coming closer to the sketch, "that is very good. That is awfully good. Do you mean to say you have done all that this morning?"
"Oh, yes," she says, modestly. "It is only a sketch."