Lady Wetheral complained the following morning of her nerves. She assured Sir John Spottiswoode her alarms about her daughter's health induced the attacks, and she hoped Christobelle would not think of quitting Fairlee grounds that day. When that dear girl was long absent, her fears became overpowering, and a frequent recurrence of such disquietude might bring on a serious illness. She hoped Bell would find amusement in the house, and be prevailed upon to forego her long walks. Sir John Spottiswoode should not suffer by her nervous feelings. She was aware her husband admired and sought out points of scenery almost as enthusiastically as Bell, and he would be delighted to attend him in his rides.

Sir John Spottiswoode smiled. "I will also decline leaving the house, if you please. Since my pupil has suffered by my selfish pleasures, I will dedicate myself to her entertainment—we will sketch the lake from the terrace."

"That would be most pleasant; but I fear my poor nerves are in the way again, my dear Sir John. I do not like to see my daughter bending over her drawing."

"Miss Wetheral shall not bend over her drawing: I will read to you both; I will read the 'Lady of the Lake.'"

"That will be most agreeable—most entertaining," observed her ladyship. "My dear Bell, you are so partial to Sir Walter Scott's poems!"

Yes, Christobelle was a warm admirer of Sir Walter's poetry; but she thought still more of the pleasure she should experience in hearing it read aloud by Sir John Spottiswoode. Christobelle acknowledged "how gratified she would feel, by hearing the 'Lady of the Lake'—that she preferred 'la lecture' even to a sketch of the bright Lochleven. She would bring her netting, and her father should sit by her in his comfortable chair."

Every thing was arranged, shortly after the conclusion of breakfast, for the reading; but, ere the gentlemen returned from their morning visit to the stables and gardens, Lady Wetheral expressed her satisfaction at the arrangement.

"I have managed to withdraw you from a walk, Bell. I dislike those walks. Your name would soon become coupled with Sir John Spottiswoode, which I will not allow. If Lord Farnborough calls to-day, every thing is in its proper order. Place a chair for the reader, between your father and myself, my love: our ears are older than your youthful members."

"I thought the Clanmoray party called yesterday, mamma?"

"They did so—and yet I have a presentiment that Lord Farnborough will appear again to-day. Remember, Bell, I do not extend my prohibition to Lord Farnborough. You may walk with Lord Farnborough."

"That would give offence to Sir John Spottiswoode, mamma."

"Leave me to manage Sir John Spottiswoode, my love."

"I shall not wish to walk; I shall remain at home to-day, if you please, mamma."

"I do not prescribe your hours, my dear Bell. Walk when and where you like, so you are not conspicuous with Sir John Spottiswoode. I warn you in time, that I will listen to no proposal which does not emanate from Lord Farnborough; and no plea from yourself, which has reference to our present guest. You are warned in time, remember!"

"I should never think of, or hope to attach, Sir John Spottiswoode," Christobelle replied, calmly; "I only wish to be allowed free liberty to enjoy his conversation."

"There is a very homely adage, Bell, which says, 'Prevention is better than a cure.' Lay its meaning to your heart."

Christobelle did not continue the dialogue. She gave her whole attention to her netting, till the gentlemen returned, and till Sir John Spottiswoode commenced his reading: her whole soul was then engrossed in the fate of the fair and gentle Ellen. Gradually her hands relaxed their grasp, as the story proceeded—gradually her eyes turned upon the reader, and her netting fell disregarded upon the carpet. She was listening to the scene where Malcolm hears the praises of Ellen from the lips of Douglas:

The eyes of Sir John Spottiswoode rested upon Christobelle as he spoke these lines, and she felt a pain at her heart before unknown, and now indescribable. Lady Wetheral caught the mutual expression, and was struck by the sudden paleness of her daughter's countenance. She turned to Sir John Spottiswoode.

"You will smile at a lady's nerves, and decide us to be incomprehensible beings; but the continual flow of your voice vibrates upon my nerves in a peculiar manner. I must feel unwell, since a voice like your own creates nervousness. I will retire, for a short period, to appeal once more to camphor-julep. My dear Bell will give me her arm."

Sir John Spottiswoode rose in alarm.

"My dear sir, these trifling attacks are becoming less and less frequent. My daughter and myself will leave you and Sir John together. I trust these attacks are not to be often repeated; but we shall meet at luncheon, I hope, quite recovered."

The mother and daughter quitted the sitting-room; but, as they passed through the door, held open by Sir John Spottiswoode, he took Christobelle's hand, and kindly hoped she would not be too ill to enjoy a breeze upon the terrace. "Oh! yes, this evening I shall truly enjoy the pure air," she replied, withdrawing her hand as they passed on.

"If there is any thing most displeasing to me," observed Lady Wetheral, as they entered her dressing-room, "it is comprised in that familiar action of shaking hands upon every occasion. I beg you will avoid it in future."

"It was merely to express a kind wish, en passant," Christobelle remarked, "that Sir John Spottiswoode just touched my hand."

"Familiarity which begins en passant, ends in contempt pour toujours, Miss Wetheral."

"Would you wish to lie down, mamma, or shall I ring for Mrs. Bevan?" asked her daughter, willing to change the subject.

"Neither, Miss Wetheral. I wish simply to remain here, and, if you please, you shall read to me."

Christobelle continued reading to her mother, who sat reclining in a lounging-chair, till a tap at the door announced Mrs. Bevan in waiting. Her ladyship touched a little silver hand-bell by her side, to indicate to Mrs. Bevan that she might enter. She brought a summons from her master, to beg the ladies would make their appearance.

"Tell Frederick, Mrs. Bevan, to inform your master we will descend when the luncheon is announced: I am very nervous and unwell."

"My lady, I believe my Lord Farnborough is in the drawing-room."

"Oh! very well, Mrs. Bevan, we are coming immediately." Mrs. Bevan vanished. "My dear love, just draw out your beautiful curls; and if you could pass a narrow blue ribbon negligently through your hair, it would give great effect to its jetty abundance. A little more animation in your manner, Bell, and a little less paleness, is to be desired. Yes, that blush has had great effect—now let us proceed, ere it vanishes."

They entered the drawing-room, and Christobelle's eyes first sought Sir John Spottiswoode. He was standing at the window, but he turned towards the ladies, as the little bustle of their entrance reached his ear, and advanced with alacrity. Lady Wetheral held out her hand. "I am much better, my dear Sir John—your countenance asks the question. I have had repose—perfect repose—and I am better. My daughter is my medicine." Her ladyship still held Christobelle's arm, and moved gracefully forward. "My lord, you are the bearer of Miss Ponsonby's wishes. My poor memory had parted with the recollection of your message yesterday, before my daughter's return."

Christobelle bowed to Lord Farnborough, and would have apologized for her absence the preceding day, by stating Sir John Spottiswoode's arrival, had not the attention of the latter been fixed upon her. She could perceive that he watched her narrowly, and that knowledge imparted an awkwardness to her manner which she could not shake off. Christobelle stopped abruptly in her speech, and hesitated. Lord Farnborough had greatly the advantage in perfect ease of manner. Christobelle felt her insufficiency, and it caused greater agitation—for what would Sir John Spottiswoode think of her folly?

Lord Farnborough entered gaily into conversation, and he did not allude to his disappointment, or recur to the events which had passed. He was charged with Miss Ponsonby's complimentary fears lest Christobelle should become a defaulter to St. Mungo's Isle, and her hopes that the party would assemble at Clanmoray, before the aquatic expedition took place. It was hoped that Lady Wetheral would accompany the Fairlee party, and forget her fears of the water.

"You will be under my guidance, Lady Wetheral," continued Lord Farnborough, "and I am an experienced sailor. Ponsonby heads a detachment also, but I particularly request your daughter and yourself will place yourselves under my care."

"We will certainly enlist under your banners, Lord Farnborough; we prefer the sailor to the soldier, upon the water," said Lady Wetheral, her countenance lighted up with pleasure, and all her ailments forgotten. "I shall accept, with pleasure, Miss Ponsonby's invitation, and I will try to forget my fears."

"I shall ride over on Tuesday, to escort you," resumed Lord Farnborough. "Since you consider yourselves my peculiar care, I shall certainly take charge of you from your own door. Miss Ponsonby declares, if I monopolize the ladies, she will insist upon being attended by the gentlemen. She therefore appropriates Sir John Wetheral and your guest."

"A charmingly novel arrangement," exclaimed Lady Wetheral, delighted to believe that Sir John Spottiswoode would not enter her appointed vessel. "I am amused by the peculiar novelty. Tell me who form your exclusive party?"

"Oh! I have secured Lady Anna and Fanny Ponsonby—Mrs. Ponsonby has declared off altogether—the Greys, and the two Quintens."

"The handsome Quintens?"

"Yes, the handsome, tall Quintens—second only to the incomparable Fanny Ponsonby."

Christobelle thought Lord Farnborough handsome—very handsome, that morning. If Sir John Spottiswoode had not arrived at Fairlee—if Lady Wetheral had not tortured her heart, by compelling its obedience—by endeavouring to lower her opinion of the friend she esteemed—if, a thousand ifs—Christobelle had perhaps admired his lordship, and fallen a victim to her mother's wishes. But, now!—a thousand Lord Farnboroughs could not fill up the sum of her preference to the society of Sir John Spottiswoode. Love was a deity unknown, unwished for. She only prayed to pass her existence with her father, and to see sometimes the friend she so greatly venerated.

Lord Farnborough remained some hours at Fairlee; and when Christobelle's confusion, which arose at Sir John Spottiswoode's scrutiny, had subsided, she could also join in the passing conversation. Many complimentary nothings fell from Lord Farnborough's lips, to which she replied with a banter which arose from the collision of their wits—not from a heart gratified by empty verbiage. Christobelle was at rest from reproach; and her spirits rose from their contact with lively observations and sprightly repartee.

Sir John Spottiswoode did not join in the wordy war, but her father smiled in pleased approbation, and often rescued his daughter from the horns of a dilemma. Lady Wetheral's satisfaction lay deep in her heart, but she sat composedly silent, as the brilliant scintillations of wit played round her. It was after the departure of Lord Farnborough, that she spoke her feelings in one concise, but too dangerous, sentence.

"Bell, walk now when and where you please, with Sir John Spottiswoode."

Christobelle was again at liberty to walk by the side of her friend—again free to claim his society, without reproachful looks and unkind expressions! How joyfully did she avail herself of the blessed privilege! Her mother smiled at their repeated absence, and expressed no curiosity to learn their subjects of conversation. Christobelle drew fearlessly to the side of Sir John Spottiswoode, or leaned upon his arm with confidence, as they watched the sun's decline from the terrace. She was the happiest creature breathing, till the day of their engagement to Clanmoray.

And yet Christobelle fancied there were symptoms of reserve on the part of her companion. Conversation became, she thought, less gaily free, less continuous. There were repeated and long pauses, which she could not break, and Sir John Spottiswoode appeared to covet. They sat one morning in their rocky seat, without exchanging a single word, till Sir John suddenly exclaimed,—

"This is, indeed, perfect happiness."

Christobelle smiled.

"We are silent adorers of Nature; but our feelings are not the less sincere."

"Powerful admiration is in the heart, not upon the lips," replied her companion, sighing.

"Yet we admired the scene as fervently when we chatted and sang upon the lake," observed Christobelle.

"That was eye-service, Miss Wetheral. The glorious scenery then delighted my eye, but had not reached my heart; its effects now are very soothing, yet melancholy."

"Don't let me interrupt your meditations, then," Christobelle replied, with a little feeling of offended pride, which had never risen in her bosom till that moment. She was ashamed of its existence, but it would display itself.

"I have not the sprightly and winning tongue of Lord Farnborough, Miss Wetheral. I cannot be witty and yet feel deeply."

"Lord Farnborough," replied Christobelle, colouring, "was not in my thoughts."

"I spoke unadvisedly, my dear pupil: forgive the stern schoolmaster."

Sir John Spottiswoode held out his hand, and when did Christobelle resist that affectionate title, which recalled his instructions, and their happy days at Wetheral? She gave her own hand with the delight of heart which every one experiences who renews a happy intercourse with half displeased friends. Sir John Spottiswoode held it for some moments; and when it was withdrawn gently from his grasp, they again relapsed into silence. The dressing-bell startled them from their long reverie.

"Oh, that tiresome bell!" exclaimed Christobelle, "how dismally and faithfully it summons one from mental enjoyment to the creature comforts!"

"It is wisely ordered!" replied Sir John Spottiswoode, placing her arm within his own. "I will tell you why I judge it so, as we climb this steep. We enjoy all things by comparison, and in their variety. Mental pleasures depend upon calm bodily tranquillity; and where the constitution suffers, there is little leisure for the mind to absorb itself in its own reveries. There! you have slipped, and hurt your foot!"

"But the dressing-bell—you have not yet illustrated your position!" exclaimed Christobelle, in some confusion, as her companion caught her fall, by throwing his arm round her waist, though it was instantly withdrawn.

"I was going to enter upon it as you fell, my argumentative pupil. A calm mind depends upon bodily repose, which demands support, which is effected by food, which is denoted by the dressing-bell to be preparing. Have I not stated it truly and concisely."

"Yes; a perfect 'House that Jack built,' in its tripping measure. You will rival Lord Farnborough."

"What is the meaning of this extraordinary arrangement, that all the ladies are to sail in one vessel, Miss Wetheral?"

"Miss Ponsonby's whim, I believe. I look forward with pleasure to our party to-morrow."

"Do you?"

"Yes: I feel light as the heather-bell, and quite ready to aim poisoned arrows at Lord Farnborough. Will it amuse you?"

"Not particularly."

"You do not like Lord Farnborough?"

"I have no reason to feel entertainment in his lordship's society. I am not an admirer of his conversation."

Christobelle thought Sir John Spottiswoode spoke a little bitterly of poor Lord Farnborough, but it did not surprise her. Doubtless, Mr. Beverly's supposed injury had taken effect upon his friend's mind, and prejudiced him against his lordship. Christobelle did not, however, continue a subject in itself uninteresting. Lord Farnborough had no charm for her; she only felt amused by his sprightly powers. While her father and Sir John Spottiswoode were near, Christobelle's spirits ever rose into gaiety: she would be gaiety itself during the water excursion, and Sir John would be gay too, only he spoke so deprecatingly of the affair. They did not linger on the terrace. Christobelle had only time to promise her companion that the evening should be devoted to music, and she hurried to her room. The second bell sounded ere she could reach the drawing-room.

The following morning rose in sunny smiles. A mist had cleared away, leaving the sparkling waters of the lake bright and clear; and Christobelle's spirits were unusually high at the prospect of her happy day of pleasurable anticipation. She spoke in metaphor, and thought in rhyme; but her astonishment was great, in beholding the coolness of Sir John Spottiswoode's manner, and viewing the gravity of his countenance at breakfast. Christobelle's most lively sallies passed perfectly unnoticed and unheeded. She could not win one smile, or obtain one remark from her friend. His eye appeared heavy, and Christobelle fancied he must suffer from concealed illness, otherwise he would have caught the infection of her spirits. The thought of Sir John Spottiswoode suffering sobered her vivacity. She became grave, and gradually even sad, to witness his dejection. Christobelle approached him when they rose from the breakfast-table; her mother had quitted the breakfast-room, and she feared no misconstruction of her anxiety.

"I know you are ill. I am sure you are unfit to join a party full of mirth."

"I believe I am unequal to this morning's gaiety; certainly quite unfitted for mirth," was the dejected answer.

"How very annoying that it should take place to-day; or how provoking that you should ever be ill! Did you rise unwell?"

"No; I was perfectly well when I entered the breakfast-room; but a few turns on the terrace with Lady Wetheral, before you appeared, has caused a head and heart ache. I cannot remain at Fairlee solitary, but I am too ill to mix in a party of pleasure."

"I wish we were both going in our own boat, to our own island, to be quiet," Christobelle exclaimed. "I do not enjoy large parties when my friends are ill."

"You will not observe my sickness of heart, Miss Wetheral. You will be gaily engaged."

"Not if you are ill."

Christobelle was not aware of the compliment conveyed in her observation. She spoke from her heart simply and sincerely, without considering its flattering tendency. Sir John Spottiswoode caught her hand, and released it again suddenly. He turned abruptly away.

"Do not speak so recklessly, so heartlessly, I beseech you!"

"I never was suspected of heartlessness, Sir John Spottiswoode!"

Christobelle also turned away, for proud tears rose at the unexpected attack. She was quitting the room.

"Stay one moment, and say you forgive me," he cried with energy. "Forgive me, Miss Wetheral—forgive me, my generous pupil!"

Christobelle turned at the last expression, and her emotion was apparent, for he caught her in his arms.

"I cannot support this sight! What right had I to presume to give pain! What right had I to breathe a harsh expression towards a creature all heart, and all nobleness!"

"I am not angry," she replied, withdrawing from his embrace—"I am not angry, Sir John Spottiswoode; only I do not deserve the appellation of heartless. I spoke in sincerity and truth."

"I know you did. I was wrong to speak as I did—forgive me!"

"I do forgive you," she answered, smiling, and another long pressure of the hand attested their reconciliation.

"Calm a penitent spirit by a stroll on the terrace, and talk to me, that I may forget my fault and its cause. Let me hear your voice again, and let me hear it till Lord Farnborough arrives."

The friends walked nearly an hour together. Christobelle's spirits were again elevated, and she chatted with renewed vivacity. Sir John Spottiswoode walked smilingly by her side, listening to her anticipations of his illness dispersing in the fresh air of Lochleven; but he was not himself. He replied to her remarks, and lent his powers in playful conversation; but they were not given. He often sighed, and repeatedly compelled his companion to bespeak his attention.

"You tell me to chat, and your mind is far away," she said, at last, weary with receiving no reply.

"But I have not lost a word. I hear you with the most vivid attention, because you will not long honour me."

"Why so, I pray you, gentle coz?"

"You will be engrossed by Lord Farnborough!"

"That, then, will be your own fault!"

He looked earnestly in Christobelle's face, and shook his head.

"Say it once more, my pupil."

"It will be your own fault, if any one engrosses my attention. Why should I be inattentive to my naughty schoolmaster?"

Lord Farnborough bounded from the drawing-room window upon the terrace, and advanced towards them. Christobelle felt her companion's arm relax; she looked reproachingly towards him.

"You wish already to get rid of your poor pupil?"

"Never, never!" was the subdued reply; but Lord Farnborough stood before them.

"You are ready, I see. Is not this a glorious day? Clanmoray is in a proper bustle, and the lake never looked so beautiful. Miss Ponsonby declares she will be the 'Lady of the Lake,' and dress in costume as you do, Miss Wetheral. She hopes some 'Malcolm' of Lochleven will start forth and woo her, but she rather despairs of such good fortune. Malcolm will be attracted elsewhere."

A low bow from his lordship pointed the compliment, and Christobelle curtseyed to its meaning. Sir John Spottiswoode would not enter into the unmeaning dialogue which succeeded: he pertinaciously avoided even lending a smile to Lord Farnborough. How deeply he resented, in Christobelle's eyes, the offence offered to his friend Beverly!

It was a beautiful drive to Clanmoray. Lady Wetheral, forgetful of her long confinement—her nervous feelings—and the painful remembrance of Clara's death, chatted through the carriage-window with Lord Farnborough, as gaily and as sportively as ever. Christobelle amused herself with rallying Sir John Spottiswoode upon his illness, which she assured him was affected, to try the sympathy of his friends. He rebutted the idea with excellent good humour, and they entered the grounds of General Ponsonby in most merry mood.

Two or three groupes were seated in picturesque attitudes, listening to Captain Ponsonby, who struck a guitar with great spirit, and amused the company with Spanish Boleros and Moorish songs. The Wetherals' arrival was the signal to embark; and, in the confusion of introductions, reception, compliments, decisions upon the fit and unfit, and Miss Ponsonby's determination to be the Lady of the Lake, Christobelle found herself descending the wooded hill which sloped to the waters' edge, escorted by Lord Farnborough and Mr. Ponsonby. Lady Wetheral followed closely upon her daughter's steps, leaning upon the arm of the Duke of Forfar. Christobelle cast lingering looks at the groupe which dotted the pathway, but she could not distinguish the figure of Sir John Spottiswoode.

"Well, we look neat, however," said Mr. Ponsonby, cracking a whip, which never departed from his right hand.

"Is my father near, Mr. Ponsonby?" Christobelle asked, anxiously. She was sure Sir John Spottiswoode would be near him, and her heart wished to ascertain his movements. She dared not appear interested in the whereabout of her "tutor," to attract notice. Mr. Ponsonby cracked his whip, and looked behind him.

"Sir John Wetheral and your friend are escorting my sisters. Do observe the pretty effect of the groupe descending the glen."

They turned to admire the picturesque figures which adorned the woody scene. Lady Wetheral also lingered with his Grace of Forfar, to gaze upon their effect.

"These scenes are not to be found in Shropshire," observed his Grace. "The Wrekin lying upon the plain, like a whale in a dish, will be tame work when we can remember Lochleven."

"And yet I sometimes sigh for the scenes I have quitted," said her ladyship. "I confess I love the busy hum of man, and Lochleven is dreary in the winter months. I wish I could persuade my daughter she is dull at Fairlee."

"Miss Wetheral loves the grand seclusion of Lochleven, because her taste has not been vitiated by society."

"My daughter is wedded to calm life, and loves no agitation beyond the ruffled lake. I believe her spirit would pine in the gay world."

"So much the better, my good lady; her young mind is uncontaminated by the arts of a worldly life."

"My endeavour is to preserve its purity, and watch over its happiness," replied her ladyship, sighing.

At this moment the whole party became united again. Sir John Spottiswoode quitted Miss Fanny Ponsonby, and approached Christobelle. Lady Wetheral perceived the movement, and she turned hastily round.

"My dear child, you are tired, you look pale. My lord, you have outwalked even your 'genius of the Lake.'"

Lord Farnborough offered his arm, with many polite regrets. Christobelle declined it, courteously. She was quite equal to the walk;—she felt no fatigues.

"Oblige me, my dear child," said Lady Wetheral, anxiously; "I cannot be satisfied unless you accept his lordship's assistance. My dear girl, make me happy."

Christobelle could hesitate no longer. All eyes were upon her; she was actually in the way, and a remark from his Grace confused her.

"My dear young lady, you stand there, turning all the young men's heads. Harry, take away your prize, for we are at fault till you proceed."

Christobelle was led away, accordingly; and she saw no more of Sir John Spottiswoode, till they gained the shore of the lake. He was walking still with Miss Fanny Ponsonby, when she beheld him again. He was apparently explaining something to her comprehension, for she was leaning upon his arm, and he was pointing to the peak of Cona. Was he quoting Ossian to the beautiful Fanny Ponsonby, regardless of the party, and of the friend who would have listened so gladly? Did he mean to become the partner of Fanny Ponsonby, when he told her, in their early walk, that he should hear her own voice only on the terrace?—when he told her, she would be appropriated by Lord Farnborough? A pang of jealousy pierced her heart at the moment, indescribably bitter; it was a pang closed her eyes, and pressed her hand tightly upon her heart. The movement attracted the notice of Lord Farnborough.

"I fear you are ill, indeed, Miss Wetheral. I am sure you have found the descent very fatiguing."

"I am rather ill," exclaimed Christobelle, still keeping her eyes closed. She could not endure the light, or the figures which flitted before her. She felt extremely giddy; so much so, she was apprehensive of falling. An exclamation from her companion caught the ear of Lady Wetheral, who was immediately at her daughter's side. Christobelle was placed upon a bank, and she leaned against her mother's shoulder. She waved away the gentlemen.

"Let no one come near me, mamma. Let no one speak to me, just now."

The duke and his lordship politely retreated. Lady Wetheral bestowed her sweetest smile upon her daughter, but it was not seen; and it would have added only to Christobelle's disquiet, if it had met her eye. Her ladyship was very soothing.

"No one shall distress you, Bell; but if, as I suspect, Lord Farnborough has spoken to you rather warmly, you must accustom yourself to this sort of thing. Only silly girls are overpowered by a love-speech or two;—do collect yourself, my love, and avoid attracting notice. This is all as it should be, but collect yourself."

"Lord Farnborough has not—" Christobelle could not proceed: she felt gasping for breath.

"Of course not, my dear Bell. A symphony precedes an air—every thing will steal on in proper order. Rouse yourself. Your father is coming to us—do not appear girlish."

Her father's presence and touch revived the spirit of Christobelle. She rose, and leaned upon his arm; she felt better when her father was near her. She entreated to be allowed to walk with him—to be with him on the water and on land. She should be quite well and happy, quite composed, if she walked only with him—with her father.

"My dear Bell, do not shock me by any display of folly. Lord Farnborough is lingering near us—resume his assistance, and let us rejoin the company. We are detaining them on the shore." Lady Wetheral rose, as she spoke, with great composure, but a smile of pleasure lurked beneath her grave and calm expression of countenance. How greatly was she mistaken in the cause of her daughter's emotion!

"You shall be my companion, Chrystal," said her father, drawing his daughter's arm within his, "and I will take charge of you. We will not delay the party."

This was not quite in the fitness of things. Her ladyship was discomposed.

"But, my love, Lord Farnborough will have every reason to feel offended: it wears a very extraordinary appearance that his lordship should be so suddenly deserted. My dear Bell, you cannot altogether desert your companion."

"A father's care will not give umbrage to any gentleman, Gertrude. I will attend to my daughter, since she requests it. No one will plead desertion when I am in question."

This step discomposed her ladyship's "arrangements," but impediments only roused her mind, and found employment for her energies. All the resources of her genius were brought into full operation by this unfortunate occurrence; and never, in Christobelle's earliest days, did she remember her mother more present to herself—more fitted to contend with the exigencies of the moment. Lord Farnborough joined them as they proceeded towards the lake. Miss Ponsonby flew towards Christobelle, at the same moment.

"My dear, I would not intrude while you were under such proper protection, but I hope you are recovered. What was it?—a little megrim?"

"We have forgotten its proper designation, and even its existence," replied Lady Wetheral, smilingly; "I am only anxious my daughter should not undertake too much fatigue. I fear her efforts in trying to promote amusement for our guest, Sir John Spottiswoode, have overcome her strength."

"Miss Wetheral shall not suffer from efforts of any kind this morning. My lord, take possession of your fair cargo, but reserve the seat of honour for our young friend."

Christobelle clung to her father's arm, but Miss Ponsonby did not observe the movement.

"Sir John Wetheral, you are my property; you must relinquish your fair daughter."

"Are we not admissable together, Miss Ponsonby?"

"I will have no rival—yes, I change my mind; I will have Miss Wetheral for my Eucharis, and be myself Calypso, instead of Ellen Douglas. Where shall I find a Telemachus?"

"Sir John Spottiswoode," answered Lord Farnborough.

"No, I hate a flirting Telemachus—he is saying sugared sentences to Fanny."

"Mortimer Grey," rejoined his lordship.

"Nonsense, Telemachus with a hare-lip?—now, out upon you! Miss Wetheral, you are mine, and you are Eucharis. I steal you from my lord."

"I cannot resign my fair assignment—racks and tortures shall not extort my consent," replied Lord Farnborough.

Captain Ponsonby came up.

"What are we waiting for? Your boat is filling, Mary—we must not delay. Miss Wetheral, are you of our party? allow me to lead you to the boat."

"Miss Wetheral is mine," cried Lord Farnborough, "and I give her to no mortal."

"It is a freight worth contending for, Farnborough: state your claims."

"The lady's own fair word, Ponsonby."

"I will hear it from her own lips. Miss Wetheral, Genius of the Lake, as they truly style you...."

"I dispute the title," exclaimed Miss Ponsonby. "I have also adopted the costume, and I choose to share the distinction."

"Unfortunate Mary!—name fatal to peace upon Lochleven, be still. Does Miss Wetheral consign herself wholly and solely to Lord Farnborough?"

"I wish to go with my father," eagerly replied Christobelle.

Lord Farnborough bowed proudly and coldly. Captain Ponsonby waved his hat in the air.

"Hurrah for Miss Wetheral and independence! For once, my lord, you are refused—checked in your high careering. Miss Wetheral, will you give your fair hand to a portionless son?"

Captain Ponsonby held out his arm to escort her to his vessel, but Christobelle's hand was taken gently yet firmly by her mother.

"My dear daughter thanks you, gentlemen, for your polite and amusingly-agreeable knight-errantry. Captain Ponsonby, however, is only unsuccessful from being too late. I believe honour is a treasure too delicate to endure a breath of reproach, and we are pledged to my Lord Farnborough."

"Then, 'soft ideas fly,'" said Captain Ponsonby, laying his hand upon his heart.

"'See our oars with feathered spray,'" exclaimed Miss Ponsonby. "We must stay here no longer. I must not be Calypso—fair Eucharis is taken from me. I believe I had better remain only Mary Ponsonby."

"Your sound judgment soon crushes imagination," cried her brother. "As Mary Ponsonby, you are a good-tempered, noisy kind of girl—but Calypso, or Ellen Douglas, would prove a failure."

"No lack of mentor, however," observed Miss Ponsonby, as she nodded her adieus, and took possession of Sir John Wetheral's arm. Captain Ponsonby called after her.

"Mary, I am going to take charge of Lady Wetheral. Tell Mortimer Grey, to take my place."

"But your party will lose such a dominant spirit, my dear Captain Ponsonby," said her ladyship, as Miss Ponsonby waved her hand, in token of assent.

"Disappointment is the lot of mortality," replied Captain Ponsonby, gaily—"I cannot divide myself into two, and my heart is with you."

The party was soon launched upon the lake. Captain Ponsonby insisted upon taking his station between Lady Wetheral and her daughter, and his gay spirits almost whiled Christobelle into cheerfulness. She saw Sir John Spottiswoode enter the first boat with Miss Fanny Ponsonby, but he never turned to cast a glance towards Christobelle—never once came forward to say he hoped she was well and happy. Her heart swelled with sorrow so poignant, that she heeded not Lord Farnborough's anxious arrangements to make her comfortable—his efforts to secure her from the breeze which rose upon the water. She heeded nothing—cared for nothing. Miss Fanny Ponsonby might consider the excursion a party of deep delight, and Lochleven might be to her a remembrance of pleasurable things—but Christobelle felt the whole affair a mockery. Her mother endeavoured to arouse her faculties.

"My love, Lord Farnborough has spoken twice—his lordship hopes you feel no inconvenience from the sun?"

"Thank you, I am very comfortable."

"My dear Bell, you are not aware Lord Farnborough has placed his cloak under your feet."

"Thank you, my lord."

"For Heaven's sake," whispered her ladyship, "throw off the girl, and be a woman of dignified, composed manners."

"I wish I was any thing but what I am, mamma."

"Nonsense; not one of your sisters acted so girlishly. I beg you will consider my shocked feelings."

Christobelle did make an effort to shake off the bonds which seemed to bind her spirits with links of iron. She turned from the contemplation of Sir John Spottiswoode and Fanny Ponsonby, but they rose before her like the undying Hydra. She saw them, in imagination, engaged in agreeable conversation—the beautiful eyes of Fanny Ponsonby fixed upon her companion's face, and her mind informed by his remarks. Christobelle saw him, in fancy, fascinated by her loveliness—eager to please—absorbed—forgetful of their own pleasant walks together—their readings—their long and happy pauses on the terrace, watching the last beams of the summer sun. She started with terror.

"My dear Bell, you are not alarmed?" exclaimed her mother. "Lord Farnborough is kind enough to take the helm."

Captain Ponsonby smiled. "What! the Genius of the Lake alarmed upon her own element? Forbid it, storms and clouds!"

"Miss Wetheral, you would feel more undisturbed if you were at my left hand," whispered Lord Farnborough.

"Indeed, Miss Wetheral would deceive herself, if she looked for rest near you, Farnborough: I will not part with my supporters. Miss Wetheral, do not be inveigled away from me. No whispering, unless it is allowed to all, if you please."

"You were pointing north this morning, Ponsonby; and now the wind sits easterly."

exclaimed Captain Ponsonby, turning towards Christobelle, with a smile.

Lord Farnborough became silent and sullen. A deep gloom spread over his handsome face, and its bland expression faded. Lord Farnborough wore a countenance, which Christobelle could never have recognised as the agreeable set of features which first pleased her at Lochleven. His lordship turned with indignant pride from his friend, and gave his attention to the Miss Quintins.

"Bell!" whispered Lady Wetheral, as Captain Ponsonby again stooped forward, to adjust his cloak, "you will lose him."

"Lose him!" thought Christobelle—"yes, I have lost him—for is he not uttering 'sugared sentences' to Fanny Ponsonby?—and is he not regardless of his old acquaintance? How easy it is to sit in happy, careless tranquillity, when no cloud veils our hopes! How happy was I, till the Clanmoray party broke through the seclusion of Fairlee, and brought a Fanny Ponsonby between me and my peace! How happy was I in my freedom, roving amid the groves of Fairlee, before Sir John Spottiswoode arrived, to teach me the glow of friendship, and then to withdraw its light!" Ill, unhappy, and indifferent to the scenery, which was her former object of devotion, Christobelle heeded not the sullen silence of Lord Farnborough, or the fears of her mother. The little attention she could spare from the conjurations of her wretched fancy, Christobelle gave to the gay and kind-hearted Ponsonby.