"And you really have wished to lead me through these romantic scenes?" said Sir John Spottiswoode, as Christobelle leaned upon his arm, on the very spot where she parted with Lord Farnborough in the morning; "you have seriously thought of your old friend during his absence, and wished him with you?"

"Yes; every storm which disturbed the lake, and every sunny gleam which gilded its tranquillity, made me think of you, and wish you by my side to enjoy it."

"Perhaps I was equally anxious to find myself strolling with you on these magnificent shores."

"You were otherwise engaged," she replied, quickly; "you had affairs to arrange, and property to amuse and interest your thoughts; but I have had no companion for years, to enliven my hours of solitary walks. I thought of you, when you were too busy to consider me."

"My thoughts were not always employed in Worcestershire, Miss Wetheral; but take me to your haunts, and let me see the views you have so long contemplated."

Christobelle led her companion to the cliff, where she usually passed her morning hours in alternate reading and meditation, and they seated themselves in a natural, rocky seat, which had been worn by time into something like a shapely kind of arbour, for the rock arched over their heads sufficiently deep to afford shelter against heat and showers; and under its rudely constructed roof Christobelle had passed many hours of each successive day, when the weather permitted her to escape from Fairlee. She pointed the attention of her friend to the grandly-indented cliffs which guarded Lochleven—the islets which appeared to slumber on its bosom—the plain of Kinross—its humble abodes—its little church, and the solitary magnificence of the whole scene. "Confess," she said, "that this is a scene worthy to compete with the boasted views abroad. Confess that Lochleven is matchless in its golden sunset, its bracing air, and calmly-beautiful waters. Does not this glowing scene fill your mind with wonder and praise? does it not give soothing thoughts of a great and wonderful Providence, who has created such scenes for his creatures?"

Sir John Spottiswoode stood some time in contemplation, and he was silent during his companion's enthusiastic descriptions: at last, he turned towards her with a smile.

"I have seen many lakes—beautiful lakes, Miss Wetheral, but I cannot say I ever looked upon their scenery with the feelings I now enjoy, in gazing upon Lochleven."

"You will admire every bend of this graceful water," she replied, pleased with his admiring gaze, as he fixed his eyes upon Lochleven; "I must shew you every lovely appendage by degrees. To-morrow we will visit the ferry of Ballahuish—no, not to-morrow...."

"And why not to-morrow?" asked Sir John Spottiswoode.

Christobelle could not tell why she coloured at the question, or why she turned her face from the speaker towards the Douglas Isle. Sir John Spottiswoode repeated his question.

"But why not to-morrow, Miss Wetheral? Why cannot we begin our tour to-morrow?"

"I believe the Duke of Forfar calls at Fairlee to-morrow," she replied.

"Will that detain you?" said her companion, looking at her with a smile.

"Not altogether—no. Lord Farnborough said something about coming too; and, as he named the time, I think perhaps I ought to remain at home."

"I do not know the nature of the understanding implied by the mention of the intended visit to you," observed Sir John Spottiswoode, "therefore I cannot offer an opinion."

"Oh! there was nothing implied—no absolute—I made no promise of any kind."

"You did not engage to remain at Fairlee?"

"Certainly not—no, I may say, certainly not."

"Then let us proceed on our little tour to-morrow."

Christobelle was caught in her own mesh. She had assuredly made no engagement—no actual engagement; but there was an implied consent on her part to Lord Farnborough's hope of finding her at home. She had not courage to confess this to Sir John Spottiswoode—and why was she guilty of evasion? She must now relinquish all thought of meeting Lord Farnborough at Fairlee. Christobelle sat meditating her disappointment for some moments.

"Miss Wetheral," said her companion, after a short silence, "did you ever see Lord Farnborough before the meeting of this morning?"

Christobelle started at the sound of Lord Farnborough's name, but she answered truly, "Never."

"Are you acquainted with his lordship's character?"

"No, indeed; my only knowledge of Lord Farnborough began, and may perhaps end, in this morning's interview."

"Lord Farnborough's character at college was designated as fair and false," observed Sir John Spottiswoode.

"Was it!"

"A fellow-collegian of his lordship's, Beverly, resides near Alverton. He gave me the character I now describe to you."

Christobelle felt uncomfortable at Sir John Spottiswoode's information. It is always painful to hear depreciating accounts of those we admire, or from whom we have received kindness. She knew nothing of Lord Farnborough—his lordship was nothing to her; but she regretted so agreeable a person should prove otherwise than estimable. Could Mr. Beverly's testimony be depended upon? Character should not be lightly treated: if Lord Farnborough's character was at the mercy of Mr. Beverly, it was but fair to ascertain Mr. Beverly's claims to belief. Under this impression, Christobelle hastily uttered her thoughts, after a second pause.

"Pray, Sir John, who is Mr. Beverly?"

"A neighbour in Worcestershire, and one of the best fellows in England. Why do you ask?"

"Because I think your friend is ungenerous, in speaking harshly of Lord Farnborough, who perhaps never offended him."

"Beverly was once deeply offended by Lord Farnborough," replied Sir John Spottiswoode.

"Therefore, your friend is revengeful," she answered, quickly.

"Beverly has borne his injuries like a man, and like a Christian," returned Sir John. "All injuries should be forgiven; but some cannot be forgotten till memory fails."

Again the little band of French horns swelled upon the still air, and the two vessels, which had sailed to the Douglas Isle, emerged from its deep shadow. Christobelle started up.

"They are returning to Clanmoray so late! Oh! listen to that sweet, soft air."

The simple strain of "Farewell to Lochaber" stole softly on their ear, and they sat silently gazing upon the little vessels, as they neared the cliff. Suddenly the music broke off, as if an accident had occurred; but the pause was of short duration—it was again broken by the lively and stirring notes of "My love she's but a lassie yet." The blood mounted to Christobelle's forehead with undisguised pleasure and surprise. She was discovered in her retreat by the party below, and an indescribable feeling shot across her heart, as it grasped at the idea that Lord Farnborough had chosen the air, and that he had commanded its execution, as the vessel passed the cliff. She leaned over the rocks, which formed a barricade before the rural seat, and in fancy she could distinguish the tall, slight figure of his lordship, standing in the stern, with folded arms, as he stood when she waved her plaid in the morning. Christobelle watched the vessel with intense attention, as it glided on, and exclaimed, with eager satisfaction,

"I see him!—I could point him out among a hundred!"

"Whom do you see?" asked Sir John Spottiswoode, as he rose and advanced to her side—"Whom are you noting?"

Christobelle did not immediately reply. She continued gazing upon the lake, and several of the party were also observing them through their telescopes from below.

"But, tell me, Miss Wetheral, whom you note among a hundred, in that party," repeated Sir John Spottiswoode.

"He is standing with—no, he is sitting—that very large personage, the Duke of Forfar—you know the Duke of Forfar?"

"Oh yes, I see. How gratified his Grace would be at the knowledge of having attracted your observation! I think I see Lord Farnborough."

"Whom do you see?—I fancy I recognise Lady Anna Herbert's feather; and there is kind Miss Ponsonby," replied Christobelle, colouring.

"Lord Farnborough is standing in the stern of the vessel, Miss Wetheral: he is waving something—his handkerchief. Who is he waving to?"

A little conscious feeling prevented Christobelle from returning the salutation. She feared Sir John Spottiswoode would observe and smile at her action. She wished he had not told her Lord Farnborough was considered "fair and false." She had no belief in the insinuation, but it caused a very unpleasant restraint. The vessel passed under the jutting rocks immediately below them, and it was obscured for a time: when it reappeared, the distance did not allow them to distinguish the party. They heard the full notes of the French horns, however, till a headland concealed the vessels from sight; and, ere the last faint note died away, the sun was considerably below the horizon. Christobelle and her companion returned to Fairlee at the moment the servants were passing through the hall with coffee.

The evening passed in conversation upon the past and present, and Sir John Spottiswoode's society made Christobelle speedily forget the attentions of Lord Farnborough. The compliments of an attractive and agreeable person, for a few hours, could not compete with the presence of a dear friend, whose taste had led her own in many instances, and who had devoted so much time to accomplish her talents for music and painting. That friend had been remembered during an absence of four years; he had been often apostrophized in solitary walks, and she had wished in silence and sincerity to renew their pleasant intercourse. That boon was now granted. Sir John Spottiswoode was again her companion, and what desire of her heart remained ungratified?

Christobelle laid her head upon her pillow, that night, in peaceful thoughts; and if Lord Farnborough occasionally flitted before her eyes—if the air of "My love is but a lassie yet" lingered upon her ear—yet Sir John Spottiswoode filled her mind. His dark hair, curling in rich profusion over his brow—his manly expression—that benevolent dark blue eye—who was equal to him in excellence?—nay, who was superior, even in those evanescent gifts which captivate the eye of woman? Whom did she love and venerate equal to Sir John Spottiswoode?

The following morning produced a long and perplexing conversation between the mother and daughter, which extinguished all Christobelle's happy feelings. No two beings could possibly be more opposed in feeling, in sentiment, and in action; and never yet did a colloquy take place, without heart-burning arising on one side, and distressed feelings on the other part, to sever the ties between parent and child. In this morning's conference their opinions jarred more painfully than ever; for they were now in actual collision upon points which must materially affect Christobelle's happiness, and her future respectability of conduct. It took place after breakfast, while the gentlemen were perambulating the terrace, and ordering the horses for an intended ride. Lady Wetheral commenced her attack with that flattering address which gains so much influence over poor human nature.

"My dear Bell, the arrival of your old friend has produced wonderful effects. I am gratified at seeing your eyes sparkle, and your expression of countenance become animated. I may confess I am pleased at beholding my quiet daughter transformed into a beauty, by the mere play of pretty coquetry which Sir John Spottiswoode's arrival has called forth."

"I detest coquettes and coquetry," answered Christobelle, seriously, though she was not insensible to the agreeable intimation of her suddenly acquired beauty.

"Nonsense, Bell; it is a woman's most potent argument—it is her most powerful weapon—it is her most precious gift—because it is her greatest attraction: do not undervalue it."

"I have not been many hours in Sir John Spottiswoode's company, mamma. If I felt inclined to coquet, I have had no opportunity."

"A mother's eyes are open, when the daughter's eyes are closed," replied Lady Wetheral, with her most winning smile. "I dare say you were not aware how prettily your eyes sought, and fell beneath Sir John's glances, last night, and at this morning's breakfast. I congratulate you, Bell, upon a gift which will create more decided effects from your ignorance of possessing it. But I wish to call your attention to my anxious wishes—I wish you to attend to my counsel, and I wish you to act by my advice."

"What is your counsel, mamma?"

"I have never yet failed in establishing my daughters," her ladyship continued, "because they acted upon my advice, without arguing its propriety. Julia and Clara acted solely by my wishes, and they won their high establishment."

"Poor Clara!" exclaimed Christobelle, involuntarily.

"It is useless to pity those who would not conform to the proprieties of life," replied Lady Wetheral. "I gave Clara to Sir Foster, with long and serious entreaties to avoid all public scenes and altercations with her husband. I never countenanced opposition in a wife. I implored Clara to be obedient in appearance—so much can be done by prudent management! I never contradicted her father in my life. I effected all my plans without a single quarrel. There is no occasion to quarrel in matrimony. A woman's influence is and must be felt; but it ends the instant you appear to contend. Clara was ungrateful to reproach me as the cause—the idea always makes me nervous."

Her ladyship applied lavender-water to her forehead and handkerchief, and then proceeded.

"Sir John Spottiswoode will propose to you before he quits Fairlee, but I should wish"—

"Sir John Spottiswoode propose to me!" exclaimed Christobelle, in the utmost astonishment.

"All that surprise is foolish, Bell. You are now old enough to command those starts and blushes which look so very fresh, so very girlish. I am certain Sir John Spottiswoode will propose, and it rests with yourself to attract Lord Farnborough."

The blood rushed with impetuous pulsation into the face of Christobelle, and it overspread her forehead, neck, and even her hands: if Lady Wetheral observed the suffusion her words had produced, she affected not to perceive it.

"I should advise you to be very cautious in your conduct to both gentlemen, my dear Bell. Do not be seen too exclusively with Sir John Spottiswoode, to attract attention; and yet, do not check hope on his part. If Lord Farnborough quits Clanmoray without intending any thing, or merely flirts with you, then, let Sir John propose. Alverton is an excellent au pis aller, but I would rather my dear Bell could be saluted Duchess of Forfar."

It was some moments before Christobelle could rally her thoughts and spirits, after the mention of Lord Farnborough, in the light of a future suitor. For one instant, only, the idea of his lordship's affection shot a gleam of ambition into her mind, but the paltry feeling was soon extinguished for ever, and her heart flew back to the remembered excellence of her former instructor and friend. Her mother watched the workings of her spirit.

"If Lord Farnborough calls to-day, my love, I shall invite him to dinner."

"His lordship is a guest at Clanmoray," observed Christobelle, hastily.

"He will be a guest at Fairlee soon," answered my mother, gaily. "I could fancy myself quite well again, my dear child; quite alert, as I used to be; your little 'minauderies' will raise me into new life and spirits. I am sure I am sure he is clever and agreeable; your little coquetries will divert me into health again."

"But, mamma—"

"No 'ifs' and 'buts,' my dear Bell. I have every dependence upon your attractions. Sir John Spottiswoode is astonished at your improved appearance."

"Listen to me, if you please, mamma. I am no coquette; and I would rather die than be considered a character so repugnant to all that is holy and upright."

"My dear girl, forbear sentiment. A little sentiment, if you please, to Lord Farnborough, but not to me."

"I have no wish to marry, mamma," pleaded Christobelle, with earnest seriousness. "I have no wish to leave papa, and—I have no wish to marry Sir John Spottiswoode, and I cannot try to attract any body. Pray, do not advise me to avoid Sir John, or to think of any establishment. Don't let me endure the fate of Clara, or Julia's long banishment."

Lady Wetheral's hands began to tremble, and her features became agitated as she spoke.

"I am well used to disobedience, and this only adds to my accumulation of vexations. and I have one child left to reproach me with bitterness. How could I expect obedience from a headstrong girl, whose masculine education defies restraint!"

"Indeed, mamma, I am anxious to do right. Indeed, my wish is to please every one; but I cannot think it right to treat Sir John Spottiswoode ill."

"Who enjoins you to do so?" said her ladyship, in a querulous tone.

"I cannot—indeed, I cannot trifle with two gentlemen, till I ascertain the intentions of one of them. Do not ask me to do so, I beseech you, for it goes against every feeling of my heart." Christobelle burst into tears.

"I detest such stupid folly! Pray, don't imagine that your frowns will destroy the peace of either gentlemen. Men do not now suffer more than an hour's annoyance; a new flame soon lights the expiring embers of an old penchant."

"I am very glad to hear it, mamma."

"I only counsel you to mete out your attentions to each gentleman alike, Bell, and to distinguish neither at present. I imagine nothing unholy in a line of conduct which preserves a proper and just decorum in your manners."

"I will do any thing you please, mamma; only do not ask me to trifle with Sir John Spottiswoode."

"You will do every thing which pleases yourself, and nothing which pleases me. I perfectly understand your meaning; but allow me also to observe, that I will hold no intercourse with a daughter who presumes to lecture her parent. I will have no communication with a young woman who insolently defies her mother, and insists upon acting according to her own weak judgment."

"Do not suppose me defying you, mamma. There is nothing I would not do to give you pleasure—nothing I would not do to increase your comforts; only I beseech you not to compel me into a conduct my heart disowns as ungenerous and wicked."

"Of course, a parent is wrong—of course, a mother is not a proper judge, compared with a child's greater wisdom, in any affair connected with that child's welfare. I am aware of your high opinion of yourself. I have long known your freedom, from every proper feeling which softens and decorates a woman's mind. Remain single, Bell, and be the prototype of your great aunt, Miss Christobelle Wetheral; sink like her into insignificant old maidism. But don't let my eyes contemplate you, an excrescence in your family—an incubus upon its glory. All my daughters have married splendidly, and I cannot be encumbered by a stupid daughter, who throws every advantage from her, and considers an admirer an unholy appendage."

Tears flowed silently down her daughter's cheeks. Christobelle could hold no dialogue with a mother, whose ironical manner and determinedly opposed views distressed her, and darkened the prospect of her life. Her silence became a matter of offence.

"If weeping is to accompany your talent for continual and insolent opposition, Miss Wetheral, I will request you to leave me: my own nerves are sufficiently shattered."

Christobelle rose, and quitted the room; Sir John Spottiswoode came towards her from the hall, as she closed the door of the breakfast-room. He did not notice her emotion; he did not even speak, but he gently drew her arm within his own, and led her upon the terrace which commanded the view of the lake. They took one turn in silence, and then Sir John Spottiswoode spoke of his admiration of Lochleven, and gradually drew Christobelle into cheerful conversation. He asked her opinion concerning the morning's plan of amusement. "If she did not prefer riding, he should feel inclined to consider the day just the very thing for a water excursion." Christobelle was very willing to resign herself into Sir John's hands. The conversation of the morning had damped the glow of pleasure, and given a melancholy tinge to her thoughts, which could not be immediately shaken off. She therefore answered slowly—"Yes, any thing; let us go upon the water, if you wish it."

Sir John Spottiswoode pressed her arm to his side so slightly, that she could scarcely write it down a pressure, as he replied:

"I will have nothing done without your full concurrence. If you do not feel inclined to go on the water, let the original plan be adopted."

"I believe my tones are rather dismal this morning," she replied, with more cheerfulness; "but I quite approve of your idea. We will certainly row to the Douglas Isle."

Sir John Wetheral accompanied them in their little excursion; and as they glided towards the Isle, the fresh air, the light dip of the oars, and the conversation of her two companions, restored Christobelle's spirit to its usual buoyancy. Sir John Spottiswoode watched the ebb and flow of her countenance, and bent towards her. "This is perfect enchantment. Tell me now why you were so melancholy."

Christobelle shook her head smilingly. "Do not put me in mind of it, but sing me a Swiss air; that air I loved to hear at Wetheral."

"You have remembered it, even among these distant scenes?"

"It has never faded from my recollection. On the contrary, these rocks and mountains brought it still more freshly to memory."

Sir John Spottiswoode instantly sang the Swiss air with spirit, and his voice sounded melodiously on the water, which lay so calmly, so beautifully still: not a breath of air curled a ripple upon its surface. Again and again the song recommenced, and all Christobelle's troubles were forgotten in the delicious harmony. She did not know she sat gazing upon the singer, till Sir John Spottiswoode suddenly paused, and their eyes met: Christobelle was not aware her attention was so exclusively bestowed upon him, till the expression of his glance recalled her thoughts. She turned from him in confusion, and fixed her contemplation upon the mountains which rose gradually above each other, till their heads were lost in clouds. She looked no more towards Sir John Spottiswoode.

The little party sat conversing some hours on a small pile of stones raised under a tree, which, in former days, constituted the plaisance of Lochleven Castle. This spot commanded the rich plain of Kinross, the rocky hills which swelled on either side, and the houses which dotted the plain, and gleamed in the sunshine. They thought of the sufferings of Mary, when she inhabited the now-ruined building under which they reposed, not as a restless Queen of Scots, but as a captive woman, banished to an isle where her eye could only rest upon rocks and water, far from her home and friends.

Sir John Spottiswoode also told of foreign scenes, and compared the beauties of Lochleven with the gigantic lakes of the south. They could not bear comparison; yet Lochleven possessed, in its diminutiveness, every requisite for poetic beauty. It was Lochleven; and Lochleven contained a succession of captivating scenery, delighting to the eye and mind. Many might prefer the imposing immensity of Geneva, of Constance, or of Zurich; but all must admire Lochleven. He did not see the chamois bounding from cliff to cliff; but the mind loved to repose on the bold yet tranquil scene which he contemplated. He did not dread the avalanche; but the softer landscape pleased an eye, sated with precipices, glaziers, torrents, and cataracts. It was delightful to sit by the side of friends, in the midst of scenery so beautiful, and yet be able to say, "It is in our own land."

Christobelle listened, and forgot Lord Farnborough. Far more attractive to her mind was the manly conversation of Sir John Spottiswoode, than the empty compliments of a new acquaintance. How could she, for an instant, feel disappointment at the thought of being absent from Fairlee when his lordship called?

Their return to the mainland was late; it was later still when they reached Fairlee. They had lingered by the way, and every turn presented new objects to admire, and fresh subjects for discussion. The half-hour bell was pealing its tones, and the echo reverberated from rock to rock, as they gained the terrace. This incident produced another pause: Sir John described the effect of the echo among the mountains of Switzerland, and the wild cry of the Switzers. Christobelle had scarcely time to hurry into her room, and change her dress, before they were summoned into the dining-room. Lady Wetheral did not address her daughter during dinner. She directed her discourse exclusively to her husband, when any subject was intended particularly to attract Christobelle's attention; otherwise, her manners were captivating as ever, when she played the hospitable and agreeable hostess, at the head of her table.

"My dear John, the Duke of Forfar called this morning." Christobelle's colour rose, and her quick eye detected the little emotion. "I was gratified by the call: his Grace looked remarkably well, and Lady Anna Herbert as sprightly as usual. Four years have rolled by, and left their 'flowing hair' unthinned. Lady Anna looks quite as youthful as she did when a 'belle confessed,' at your mother's balls, Sir John Spottiswoode."

"She was a very fine girl, and an excellent flirt," remarked Sir John. "Charles and Lady Anna were great friends some years ago."

"I was very much pleased with Lord Farnborough," continued Lady Wetheral, addressing her husband, and passing her eyes slightly over Christobelle. "Lord Farnborough accompanied gentleman many years."

Sir John Spottiswoode made no remark; and Christobelle was silent. Sir John Wetheral asked if the great boy had grown into a fine-looking youth?

"I set Lord Farnborough down as decidedly handsome at the first glance, my love; but I forgot his beauty in his very finished manners."

Sir John made no further remark, and there was a short pause, till Lady Wetheral resumed—

"Lord Farnborough spoke with polite pleasure of his introduction to my daughter yesterday; and he brought a note from Miss Ponsonby, requesting us to join a party next Tuesday to St. Mungo's Isle. You were included, Sir John, when our friends learned you were at Fairlee."

Sir John Spottiswoode bowed.

"It is to be an early party, and there were sundry messages delivered which my poor head could not contain; but Lord Farnborough will call again with more ample instructions. I told him it was cruel to load my memory with such matter."

"Do the Forfar party continue long at Clanmoray," said Sir John Spottiswoode, some moments after the subject had dropped.

"I believe so," was Lady Wetheral's reply; "indeed, Lord Farnborough mentioned his own protracted stay, when the rest left for Farnborough Stacy. I forget when they depart."

"Perhaps there is attractive metal in Miss Fanny Ponsonby," observed Sir John Wetheral.

"There is attraction somewhere," replied his lady, "for there was a lover's touch in his description of Lochleven, and in his anxiety for the party to St. Mungo's Isle."

"Allow me the pleasure of taking wine with you, Miss Wetheral," said Sir John Spottiswoode, bending forward. The subject again dropped.

The half hour's interregnum after dinner, was passed in lectures on Lady Wetheral's part. The ladies had scarcely entered the drawing-room, when Christobelle's attention was again required upon the subject so painfully argued in the morning.

"I wish to try your narrow capacity once more, Bell, and to ascertain whether you really possess one spark of that wholesome ambition which dignifies a woman of birth."

"Indeed, mamma, I hope so. I would not for worlds stoop to commit a mean action, or indulge a mean thought. My very greatest ambition is to act like a lady, and, by so doing, meet every one's respect."

"That is all very well, Bell, but that is not exactly my meaning. To be respectable, you must soar. It is vain to content one's-self with grovelling just above the heads of the canaille. The proper ambition is to grasp at high things, and possess them."

"I have no wish for high things, mamma."

"Because your nature is common-place, Bell, because your mind is low set. However you may pique yourself upon your accomplished education, that very education has crippled my hopes, and your own prospects. You will live and die, satisfied with mediocrity."

"But, mamma, what do you mean, and what am I to do to give you satisfaction? I cannot understand you."

"I will explain myself, Bell. Are you a girl of such a mean spirit, as to accept a baronet, when a duke's son enters the list of suitors? Answer me—are you so mean-spirited, so mediocre in your wishes, as to content yourself with a man who cannot raise you above your fellows?"

"Certainly not, mamma, if I did not love him."

"Love him! Could you love a man—would you dare to plead attachment to a man, as an excuse for lowering yourself in marriage below your sisters' fortunes? Would you meanly creep, while their flight has carried them to this world's pinnacle? I hope, I trust, you would not do so, Bell!"

"Whom can you allude to?" exclaimed Christobelle, distressed beyond measure at her mother's words; "tell me at once, I beseech you, what you mean. Do not speak to me in parables."

Lady Wetheral became extremely agitated. She walked to the window, threw open the sash, and closed it again, as she spoke.

"I have said enough to waken your understanding. Any one might comprehend my meaning—any one would know I detested the idea of your marrying Sir John Spottiswoode."

Christobelle looked up in her mother's face with astonishment. She continued with increased nervousness.

"You cannot deceive me, Bell. You cannot deny your predilection for that man, which will at once decide the intentions, and end all hopes of Lord Farnborough. You are determined to pursue your will, and I will act upon my own resolution. The very hour in which you accept Sir John Spottiswoode, shall be the last of your residence with me."

"Good heavens, mamma, I have not a thought of Sir John Spottiswoode, or Sir John Spottiswoode of me! What can have caused such a supposition in your mind?"

"You do not care for him—you will not care for him—is that your meaning, Bell?"

"I do not care for any one, half so much as for my own papa, and I hope I shall always prefer him," she exclaimed, energetically.

"Folly, and nonsense!—girl's folly," resumed Lady Wetheral, "by your blushes I might have given you credit for ambition; but your walks and sailing with Sir John Spottiswoode, inclines me to fear you will give yourself to a poor baronet."

"I did not know he was poor, mamma."

"Comparatively speaking with Sir Foster Kerrison, he is poor. What is a paltry income of three thousand pounds, compared with the wealthy dukedom of Forfar?"

"Am I to marry the Duke of Forfar?" exclaimed Christobelle, starting from her chair in horror.

"Not the present duke, Bell, though he is a remarkably fine man, and not more than sixty years of age. Many young ladies might approve the Duke of Forfar; but I allude to his very handsome, very accomplished mannered son."

Christobelle could have listened to her mother's eulogium with infinite pleasure at an earlier period, and before she had deprecated Sir John Spottiswoode. But her soul rose against persecution. She could not endure to hear her friend lowered, or to be at once commanded not to like a man whom she loved in innocence, and without a thought of future connexion. From that moment, Sir John Spottiswoode became a martyr in her eyes, and Lord Farnborough sank into a secondary personage. Lady Wetheral awaited her daughter's reply some moments, but her mind was too busily employed deciding her feelings.

"You are very thoughtful, Bell. Think well upon my words, and act with becoming spirit."

"I have thought, and I have decided," replied Christobelle, firmly.

"But do not look so ashy pale, my dear Bell; these little struggles are trifles, compared with a long existence of nonentity. I gave up a very powerful attachment, to please my wise and reflecting mother. I relinquished Captain Blennerhasset for your father, and I found her remarks perfectly just, by the course of events. She implored me to forbear marrying an Irish officer, with little more than his pay, when a prospect arose before me of becoming mistress of Wetheral Castle. She assured my romantic fancy, that Love could not survive the attacks of poverty, and she warned me to avoid the miseries of following my husband into disagreeable quarters, where I must sink into a captain's lady, a title of far less importance than the general's mistress. I followed my dear mother's prudent advice, and broke off my engagement with Blennerhasset."

Christobelle was interested in the fate of her mother's unfortunate lover, and she asked what had become of Captain Blennerhasset?

"He married somebody of distinction," she replied, "and fell at Badajos. His widow and four children are now living upon the bounty of their friends. My mother's counsel was wise, and I was fortunately prevailed upon to act with propriety."

"Poor Captain Blennerhasset!"

"Poverty is always pitiable," resumed Lady Wetheral. "I consider people equally poor, whose income will not allow them to compete with their neighbours. I should say poor Lady Spottiswoode, if you were the wife of our excellent guest,..."

"Alverton is a handsome estate," remarked Christobelle.

"Very well for a nobody," replied Lady Wetheral, haughtily, "but a wretched pittance for a Miss Wetheral, who has attracted the notice of Lord Farnborough. I saw his watchful looks towards the door, Bell. I marked his lordship's glances towards the lake, when he heard of your visit to the island; every thing is in your power, if you will but listen to your mother's counsel."

"Do not talk to me of marriage, mamma, I implore you," cried Christobelle, as the gentlemen entered from the dining-room. Sir John Spottiswoode took his seat near her as usual; she thought he looked more benevolent, more interesting than ever. Matrimony never coupled itself with her admiration of Sir John, but to be commanded to approve him less than Lord Farnborough—to consider him poor and undesirable, who had improved her better tastes, and increased her store of good! No, that should never be. Christobelle was too young to wish to marry, too happy and free to think of fetters: but her right hand would forget its cunning, ere she ceased to esteem Sir John Spottiswoode beyond every human being.

"Shall we walk this evening?" he asked, as thoughts passed too rapidly through her mind to allow of speech. Christobelle coloured, and turned mechanically towards her mother. Lady Wetheral saw her emotion.

"My dear child looks fatigued, Sir John. Shall we advise her to be quiet this evening? A long morning upon the water has lessened her bloom."

"One little turn upon the terrace only, Miss Wetheral." Sir John offered his arm.

"My dear Bell, even the terrace will fatigue you," observed her ladyship, with anxiety.

"One turn to watch that sunset, Lady Wetheral! I will bring Miss Wetheral back before fatigue attacks her."

"My dear Bell!..."

"I will not detain her many minutes—one turn, my pupil."

Christobelle could not resist that title. She rose, and accompanied Sir John Spottiswoode upon the terrace. One turn was taken, and they paused to watch the golden beams sink behind the mountains. Another and another was agreed upon, just to watch the pale gleams departing. Was it, indeed, her mother's prohibition which gave so much interest to her companion's remarks? Was it her prohibition which threw a charm over his conversation, and caused Christobelle to linger in his society? She knew not—but it was dark when they returned into the drawing-room, and the coffee had been forgotten. Lady Wetheral's eyes turned upon her daughter with an offended expression, but Christobelle forgot their glance in pleasing retrospections that night. Christobelle dreamed of Sir John Spottiswoode, and their early first days of acquaintance, when Lady Wetheral approved and sought his intimacy, and she had enjoyed it undisturbed, without a reference to Lord Farnborough.