"Miss Wetheral," said Captain Ponsonby, "when I quitted Clanmoray, six years ago, I never dreamed of a fair neighbour at Fairlee."

"Six years ago I was nursing a doll, Captain Ponsonby."

"Even so. You tease your dolls in youth, and tease our hearts in age. Like a falling star, you have shot from your sphere, upon the banks of this lake, and where shall you make your rest?"

"You have been some time in Ireland, Captain Ponsonby, and have caught the true hyperbole."

"I had no practice there, Miss Wetheral. If I told a lady she was charming, it was 'ah now, you're joking'—and if I advanced with classical allusions, or sparkling metaphor, it was 'ah now, Captain Ponsonby, you're so droll!'"

"The Irish ladies possibly guessed your character, Captain Ponsonby, as it appears to have been a general answer. They knew you were either in jest, or sarcastic."

"Upon my honour, you are wrong. I am sincere in word and deed. I am neither fair nor false, the motto of some of my neighbours. Don't look this way, Farnborough."

"Miss Wetheral," said his lordship, "do not believe half you hear from Ponsonby's lips."

"It hit my lord hard, you perceive, Miss Wetheral."

"My friend Ponsonby is a rover—sans eyes, sans heart, sans every thing, Miss Wetheral."

"Excellent—ha, ha!" laughed Captain Ponsonby. "I can disprove the charge, Miss Wetheral. I was in love three whole days, once, at Castlebar."

"And why so speedy a cure?" Christobelle demanded.

"The lady kept silence three days," he replied, "but, on the fourth morning, the charm dissolved, for she spoke."

"What could she have spoken, to break a spell so powerful, Captain Ponsonby?"

"I met the lady in a pouring rain, and, though I had not been introduced to her, we had met often, and were acquainted by name and sight. I offered her my escort and my umbrella. 'Ah, now, Captain Ponsonby, there's rason in what you say, and I'll be obleeged to you'—was her good-humoured reply. I could bear the brogue tolerably, Miss Wetheral, for six months' residence had enured me to its twang; but I could not away with the perfect nonchalance with which she exhibited a pair of enormous ancles, and appealed to me upon their use. 'Ah now, Captain Ponsonby, if I've got no understanding above, there's plenty below, and I'll be charged for two pair of legs through the penny turnpikes.' Farewell the glowing complexion and bright eyes of my love!—I never more gazed upon Miss M'Nab."

"Was that your only enlargement of heart, Captain Ponsonby?"

"Some few relapses there might have been, but none of any consideration. Miss M'Nab was the most serious love."

"You are difficult to please."

"No, I think not; but I desire to find a sufficiently lovely woman, with sweetness of temper, and delicacy of manners, to love with constancy. If I ever love sincerely, it will be my life-strings—the very breath of my life."

"Then be very cautious, Captain Ponsonby," said Christobelle, with a feeling of painful interest. She felt how sorrowful were the disappointments of friendship. What would the pangs of unrequited affection be?

"Will you be my guardian angel, and watch over me, Miss Wetheral?"

"I cannot undertake such a momentous charge," she replied. Lord Farnborough watched the conversation in gloomy silence, and conversed no more with Miss Quintin. Lady Wetheral was gratified by the expression of jealousy which darkened his lordship's fine face, for, during the little bustle of debarkation, she smiled, and hastily whispered—"Christobelle, very well managed, my love; a little jealousy is useful, but beware of giving offence."

"Mamma, you are quite mistaken, indeed you are."

"Nonsense, Bell; I am keenly watching and deciding." Lord Farnborough offered his hand to assist her transit at that moment, and the subject was of course dropped. Captain Ponsonby offered his hand to Miss Wetheral, and they followed in succession: he placed her arm within his own, as they touched the shore of the little island. "Mind, you belong to me, Miss Wetheral; I shall not relinquish you now."

Lord Farnborough consigned Lady Wetheral to his father's care, and immediately returned. His lordship appeared offended at the disposition of things.

"Miss Wetheral, I am deputed by Lady Wetheral to bring you to her: allow me—" Lord Farnborough put forth his arm. Captain Ponsonby interfered.

"No one takes my guardian angel from me. I will take charge of Miss Wetheral with equal care. Miss Wetheral is mine."

"My claim began earlier, Ponsonby," remarked his lordship, with a look of fierceness.

"I will fight for every inch of mine. My good fellow, the Quintins are unattended."

"My delegated place is by the side of Miss Wetheral." Lord Farnborough threw a look of defiance at her companion, which terrified Christobelle. "Oh, pray take me to my father, Captain Ponsonby," she cried; "pray let me walk with my father."

"You shall be obeyed." Captain Ponsonby drew her among the group, who were deciding the plan of refreshment, or arranging their dress, and gave her into her father's care; but Christobelle still dreaded the looks of Lord Farnborough. She did not withdraw her arm from Captain Ponsonby's support: he smiled.

"You are my guardian angel, after all. I see your fears, and, while they operate to my advantage, I hope they will continue. How delightful it is to be the object of a woman's tender care! every thing is so kindly and silently done."

"I do not like Lord Farnborough's looks, Captain Ponsonby."

"Nor I, at all. I am very much alarmed, and I beg you will keep near me." Christobelle laughed.

"What are you laughing at?"

Lady Wetheral approached, leaning on the arm of his Grace; and Lord Farnborough also came up. Captain Ponsonby affected to tremble, and assured Christobelle, if she quitted his protection, he should be a lifeless corpse. He could not bear the lightning of Lord Farnborough's eye, or the thunder of his angry voice, at being deprived of his prey. He thought they had better contemplate the ruins of the little chapel, while the party were quarrelling about the dinner-tables. Sir John Wetheral was willing to move, and Christobelle also was anxious to leave the spot where Sir John Spottiswoode stood pertinaciously by the side of Fanny Ponsonby. Sickness of heart came over her, and she turned from the scene.

Lochleven crowded all its beauties into the panorama viewed from St. Mungo's Isle, but Christobelle gazed upon them with vacancy: her eye could not distinguish, and her mind would not relish them. She sat upon a low, ruined wall, in utter listlessness; and, in silence, listened to Captain Ponsonby's statement of the scenes which had taken place on the spot where they rested, when it had been the sepulchre of the clans of Glencoe and Lochaber. Christobelle's adoration of ancient legends was sunk in apathy. She dared not turn her head, lest the fearful forms of Fanny Ponsonby and her companion should startle her sight. She gazed on the heights, without perceiving their beautiful outline. She listened to Captain Ponsonby, without the power of retaining his words. A summons to the rural dinner alone roused her spirits and energy.

"Bell, my love, I have preserved a seat for you, near me," said Lady Wetheral, holding out her hand—"Come to me, my love; you have played truant."

Captain Ponsonby seated Christobelle, and prepared to take possession of an empty chair on her left hand, but Lady Wetheral smilingly interfered—

"My dear Captain Ponsonby, I believe your seat belongs to another, but probably we can make room for you. Ah! the benches interfere so; but where will you find a seat? Spottiswoode, is there not a vacant seat near you?"

"Do not disturb yourself, Lady Wetheral. I am perfectly satisfied with my present quarters; and when a turn out is beaten, I shall take a sentinel's place."

Captain Ponsonby accordingly seated himself, and devoted his time and attention to the wants of Christobelle, till Lord Farnborough joined them, with a cold fowl upon his silver fork.

"I have been my rounds for a supply, and can only gain one recruit, Lady Wetheral, a fowl screened from observation by a bed of parsley. Ponsonby, you'll excuse my resumption of a seat which is mine by right of conquest."

"I only held it in fear and trembling, Farnborough. I relinquish my seat with regret; but if I must, I must. Miss Wetheral, pity my sorrow, and admire my resolution." Captain Ponsonby rose, and stationed himself behind her chair.

"My dear fellow, there are two seats at the bottom of the table for you," said Lord Farnborough.

"I am very happy in my present situation," replied Captain Ponsonby; "I am attending upon Miss Wetheral."

"But the Greys are quite by themselves, Ponsonby; do go down, and offer your services there."

"Miss Wetheral, you are wishing for a slice of cold turkey; I saw you contemplating it," observed Captain Ponsonby, who took no notice of his friend's speech. "I fly for it."

"I wish Ponsonby would attend to the Greys," said his lordship, as Captain Ponsonby quitted his station. "I shall be most happy to attend upon you and Miss Quintin."

The eyes of Christobelle were riveted in the direction of the turkey, as Captain Ponsonby remarked; for there sat Sir John Spottiswoode, and Fanny Ponsonby was at his side: she tried to withdraw her eyes, but they were fixed by leaden weights, and she gazed on. She saw Sir John Spottiswoode turn to ask Captain Ponsonby whom he should assist to a slice of the breast; and when Miss Wetheral's name was mentioned, he did not look towards her; he turned and spoke to Fanny Ponsonby. Christobelle would not allow the tears to rush from their fountains, or a sigh to escape from her heart, however pained were her feelings. She only resolved never again to walk as she had done with Sir John Spottiswoode, never again to feel for him those kind and friendly sentiments which he knew not how to appreciate. Captain Ponsonby returned laughing from his mission.

"I wish you could hear Fanny and your handsome friend, Miss Wetheral. They are trying which shall make the most glaring compliment to each other. I left your friend talking about the heart of a lover, which made Fanny grave. Do look at her, now." Christobelle glanced towards his sister; her sprightly countenance had faded into deep attention, as Sir John Spottiswoode spoke earnestly; her glowing complexion had changed its bloom, and was become pale. Christobelle would have given worlds to have been acquainted with their subject.

"Ponsonby, you are devilish rude; no one has taken wine with the Greys," exclaimed Lord Farnborough, as his friend resumed his station behind the chair of Christobelle.

"Ponsonby," cried Mr. Grey, "are you under orders there, that you stand sentinel over Miss Wetheral?"

"I wish the guard was relieved, Grey," said Lord Farnborough. "Beg your sisters to send a deputation to Ponsonby."

"They would prefer your lordship," answered Mr. Grey. "I speak in their names, because they decline the publicity of confession."

Lord Farnborough's countenance again became gloomy, but he made no reply to Mr. Grey. His lordship turned to Christobelle.

"Miss Wetheral, allow me the pleasure of drinking wine with you."

Christobelle was happy to do so, and by that action she gratified her mother, who sat by her, proudly happy to witness his lordship's vexation at the conduct of Captain Ponsonby. Every one appeared happy but Christobelle: she saw every face decked with smiles, and each person appeared contented with the merriment of the scene. She alone sat ill at ease, and received no satisfaction in the attentions of Lord Farnborough and his friend. She wished to be silent and alone: she wished to think over the events of the morning, and reckon with her heart. She wished to ascertain if her disquietude arose from unrequited friendship, or whether she indeed loved Sir John Spottiswoode. The noble friendships which Christobelle had contemplated in history, teemed with grand and inspiring actions, but she read not of eyes turned away from the object, or misery created through jealous misgivings. If she loved Sir John Spottiswoode, what would become of her, should another engross his attention and his heart? While she was lingering with him among the cliffs of the Lochleven, all was so tranquil, so happy, so calmly and fearlessly happy! Why was it not so with her in this gay group?

Christobelle was lost to all sound, till a general move was made. The tables were abandoned to the attendants, and the party retired to the extremity of the little island, to amuse themselves till the boats were again loaded with the spoil of the entertainment. Christobelle was attended by Lord Farnborough and Captain Ponsonby, who appeared tacitly determined to struggle for her attention, and annoy each other.

"Miss Wetheral," said his lordship, "you will honour me by accepting my arm now."

"Miss Wetheral cannot desert her old companion," remarked Captain Ponsonby, again stepping forward and taking her hand; but Christobelle withdrew it.

"I should like to understand your claims to Miss Wetheral's notice, Ponsonby."

"Never mind, my good fellow. A lady possesses her own right to select and approve."

"Am I to understand, Miss Wetheral, that Captain Ponsonby is selected by you?"

Lord Farnborough spoke with a bitter sneer, and stood before Christobelle with a raised complexion, awaiting her answer. She was fearful of unpleasant scenes; she wished to avoid notice: she could only decide not to receive assistance from either gentlemen. They however walked on either side of her, and the trio silently mixed among the retiring group. Sir John Wetheral relieved his daughter's perilous situation by his approach. Lord Farnborough might conceal much beneath the restraint of polished society; but his temper was strongly irritable; it glistened in his eye, and fired his countenance, whenever Captain Ponsonby addressed Christobelle. The company formed into little parties, on a green bank which swelled towards the water's edge; and, by some unseen chance, Christobelle was grouped in the little knot which contained Sir John Spottiswoode. Their eyes had not met since they quitted Clanmoray. Captain Ponsonby and his guest were crouched at her feet, her father sat beside her, and Mr. Grey, with the Miss Ponsonbys, completed the number. The rest of the party sat only a few paces apart, but they were engaged in different subjects of conversation, and did not unite with them.

Captain Ponsonby requested his sister Fanny to enlighten the company upon the interesting conversation which had taken place between herself and her companion at dinner.

"It is vain to say," he continued, "that the subject is forgotten, for I left you discoursing upon a lover's heart; and your face, Fanny, was so full of interest, I was obliged to bespeak Miss Wetheral's attention."

Fanny Ponsonby coloured, but disclaimed any peculiar interest in the subject. Her eyes sought the ground, and Christobelle fancied they filled with tears. Her sister begged to be heard a few moments upon the subject. She was rather inspired by the dinner, the party, and the beautiful scenery, and she ventured to think she could define a lover's heart, if her audience were inclined to listen.

"Silence in the court!" exclaimed Lord Farnborough. "The deponent speaks."

"A lover's heart," resumed Miss Ponsonby, waving her hand, "is ennobled by affection, grand in its conceptions—"

"There you are out, Mary," cried her brother; "on the very threshold you have stumbled. What is a more jealous, narrowed, dull, complaining concern than love, and a lover's heart? Can any thing be more disturbing, distrustful, and moody, or more capricious?"

"Speak on, Arthur; I know very little about the matter, I believe, while your long absence has doubtless taught you knowledge," cried Miss Ponsonby.

"Does not love create suspicion?"—Christobelle cast her eyes involuntarily towards Sir John Spottiswoode, and met his fixed, melancholy look. His eye was instantly withdrawn.

"Does not love create melancholy?" continued Captain Ponsonby, turning to Christobelle, "does it not produce the desire to please, while it restrains the ability, Farnborough? Does it not bow down the head, and make pale the cheek, Fanny?"

Fanny Ponsonby started at her brother's address, but she smiled good-humouredly at the question. Her head had bent forward, and her attention was earnestly given to the definition of the lover's heart. Her attitude had attracted the notice of her lively brother, and drawn down his remark, but its purport was received as gently, as its intention to give offence was innocent. Not so Lord Farnborough. He rose proudly from the humble position he had assumed, and retired to the group detached from his party. Captain Ponsonby continued his remarks, while a satisfied smile played on his lips.

"Altogether, love deforms and beautifies; it makes the humble and silent man talkative; and it causes the violent man to throw off the mask which veils his fiery spirit. The less we know of the subtle deity, the happier we are in freedom of heart and spirit; but once receive him to your bosom, and adieu for ever to the calm pleasures of life."

"I thought, Arthur, 'love was heaven, and heaven was love;' at least, that is my idea of the passion."

"Mary!" exclaimed her brother, "presume not to touch upon ground where your foot has never yet trod. Be wise, and remain in your ignorance, uninteresting, and uninformed. There can be no heaven in the dire suspense, the conscious feeling, the fear of scorn, the unrequited pang, the jealous agony of heart, the sighs of uncertainty."

Fanny Ponsonby rose hastily from her verdant seat, and Sir John Spottiswoode accompanied her, but they moved in different directions, when they reached the site of the chapel which once stood in this island, a place of worship for the living, and an asylum for the dead. Fanny Ponsonby appeared to seek refuge in solitary contemplation; for she sought the most distant spot, and stood gazing upon the lake. Sir John Spottiswoode remained among the relics of the dead, and seated himself on the low wall where Christobelle had listened to Captain Ponsonby's legendary tales in listless indifference.

"In general," said Captain Ponsonby, "an orator draws an audience by his powers of speaking, but I have chased mine into every corner of this little earth. Either I have said too little or too much. Mary and Mortimer are my best supporters. Sir John Wetheral, you are considered a veteran. Come, Miss Wetheral, let us follow the multitude; it is vain to waste my talent in empty space, so I dissolve the meeting."

Captain Ponsonby sprang to his feet, and the little group gradually dispersed. Miss Ponsonby declared her brother should have been educated for the bar in lieu of the army, he held forth so fluently upon unintelligible subjects; and she challenged Mortimer Grey to assist her in discovering the lost victims to Arthur's oratory. They set forth in the direction of the spot where Fanny Ponsonby still stood absorbed, and alone. Captain Ponsonby walked chatting by Christobelle, who leaned upon her father's arm, and all bent their steps towards the little ruined chapel.

"Who would have supposed so many graves, heraldic devices, and rude sculpture, to lie forgotten and deserted here?" said Captain Ponsonby, pointing to the various relics of other times which lay half buried in the earth around. "How many stirring events have filled this soil with mouldering bones, and caused the tears to flow from maidens' eyes!"

"How many fearful feuds have made these mountains echo with shouts and cries of blood!" remarked Sir John Wetheral.

"Ay, but picture to your mind's eye the funereal procession of the clans, slowly winding down those bold cliffs in silent sorrow, while the pibroch screamed its wild notes to wail the dead." Captain Ponsonby's countenance assumed a graver expression as he spoke, and Christobelle thought it infinitely became the cast of his features. It passed away quickly, as they advanced towards Sir John Spottiswoode, and he resumed his playful mood.

"Sir John Spottiswoode, Miss Wetheral likens you to a lover bewailing his mistress."

"Pray, Captain Ponsonby, do not say so," exclaimed Christobelle, in alarm.

"You looked as if you thought so, Miss Wetheral. Why is your eye so expressive?"

Christobelle felt distressed beyond measure at Captain Ponsonby's thoughtless speech, which elicited a cold smile from Sir John Spottiswoode. How could he smile so coldly upon her?

Christobelle had no spirits to reply to the cheerful remarks of Captain Ponsonby, who continued chatting with enviable ease of heart, upon every subject which offered itself to his notice. She was listening to a conversation infinitely more attractive between her father and Sir John Spottiswoode; but Captain Ponsonby's vivacity perpetually interrupted her attention, and called forth an unwilling and absent reply. There is no annoyance so galling as the society of the happy, when a heart is struggling with grief, which seeks silence and solitude.

"Miss Wetheral, I bespeak your attention to those masses of clouds rising in the west; are they not beautiful? Did you ever fancy forms in the clouds? I do, often. See, Miss Wetheral, I can outline a lion rampant perfectly in that fleecy cloud—can you see it?"

Christobelle was disturbed: Sir John Spottiswoode had spoken about Alverton, and she wished to catch his words as they became indistinct. She answered Captain Ponsonby hastily, "No, indeed."

"I will point it out more distinctly. Fix your eye upon the third dark cloud, and by the side of that cloud stands the lion rampant. Now do you see what I mean?"

"Yes," replied Christobelle, almost peevishly, "I think I see what you mean." She trusted the subject was now ended.

"Well, can you distinguish a chariot and pair, Miss Wetheral? I see them distinctly, and in excellent proportions."

"It pains my sight, Captain Ponsonby, to fix my eyes upon the heavens."

"I will shade the light with my hat," said Captain Ponsonby; "there, now your eyes are safe: the sun is behind my hat."

Christobelle was obliged to give her attention to the indefatigable Captain Ponsonby, and she lost all hope of Sir John Spottiswoode's remarks. Her spirits were powerfully depressed; happily, as the morning had opened upon her cheerful expectations, every pleasant prospect was clouded now. Sir John Spottiswoode had been gay and playful in conversation, till they alighted at Clanmoray, and from that moment her evil genius had pursued her. Why was the companion of her walks so changed, and why was he so cold and silent to his friend?

It appeared to Christobelle that Sir John Spottiswoode suffered under an equally potent spell. The tone of his voice as he spoke to her father was low and melancholy, and there was an expression in his withdrawn eyes, which particularly affected her. It was not of anger, he was too kind to feel angry; it was not of irritability, such as she had seen flashing and dull by turns, in her mother's countenance. There was an expression, touching and attractive in his disquietude, which went at once to her heart, and occupied its thoughts. She could ill endure the rapid remarks and conversation of Captain Ponsonby: how she wished to be again at Fairlee, free from observation, and at liberty to think upon all that had occurred, in the solitude of her own apartment! Oh, that she had never seen Fanny Ponsonby! It was Fanny Ponsonby who pointed the arrow of jealousy at her heart, and tore the veil from her eyes. It was Fanny Ponsonby who taught her that friendship was but a cloak for deeper feelings, and that the pain she inflicted betrayed a heart prostrate before that Deity whose arrows, under a borrowed name, enter unsuspiciously into the soul of his victim.

"But, Miss Wetheral, you are meditating too gravely," resumed Captain Ponsonby, after a pause of some minutes, "the tombs of a thousand souls cause your eye to grow heavy. Let us sing away care upon these swelling earths. Where are the mirthful ones, and where are the singing-men, and the singing-women? The Greys are all musical."

The vivacious Captain Ponsonby called the party round him, and they seated themselves on the mounds which were scattered thickly round the chapel. The Greys formed the centre of the groupe, and their full voices wafted along the waters that beautiful glee of Calcot's, "Desolate is the dwelling of Morna." The effect was truly delicious. Desolate, indeed, was the ground upon which they sat; and silent, indeed, were the sounds which in former times burst from the shores of Lochleven. The harmony and its wildly poetic words accorded well with the scene before and around them. "Yet, a few years, and the blast of the desert comes," fell upon Christobelle's ear, and roused a thousand emotions.

It seemed to describe in one short sentence the tale of life; and it too truly illustrated her own wretched position. She could not repress the tears which flowed at the thought, that even in her early youth, care was beginning to do its work. She turned involuntarily to look upon Fanny Ponsonby, the author of her wretchedness. She was seated a little apart, and her head had sunk upon her breast, as though the harmonious sounds had lulled her into deep repose; but Christobelle saw the heavings of her bosom, and knew she wept.

The Greys concluded their song, and Captain Ponsonby was called upon to lend his talents towards the harmony of the scene. The young officer was nothing loth: with inexpressible softness, and in excellent taste, he sung:

Captain Ponsonby turned towards Christobelle, as he concluded the last line of the first stanza, and he pressed his hand gallantly upon his heart, as he gave the last verses:

Christobelle blushed deeply at the general notice which Captain Ponsonby's manner attracted towards her, and Lady Wetheral thought it prudent to break up the party, lest the offended countenance of Lord Farnborough should deepen, and produce results in his conduct, which would overthrow her dearest plans. She turned to Miss Ponsonby.

"My dear Miss Ponsonby, are not those clouds threatening? I have observed them some minutes with fearful forebodings: my dear Bell, fold your plaid round you, the air is becoming fresh."

The attention of the party was turned anxiously to the west, and General Ponsonby advised an immediate return to the opposite the boatmen to their oars, and Lord Farnborough took his vacant place by the side of Christobelle. His lordship spoke with much vehemence of manner.

"You have been bored with your neighbour, Miss Wetheral, yet you have preferred him to me."

"Captain Ponsonby did not weary me, my lord."

"I hate those talking fellows, yet ladies love to be attended by them. I can't think why all ladies like Ponsonby to run after them."

Christobelle was offended by Lord Farnborough's expressions. When his lordship attended her from Lochleven Castle to Fairlee Cove, all was courtesy and gallant bearing—but his lordship had become overbearing, and, if she might so express it, he was actually offensive in St. Mungo's Isle. She made no reply.

"Allow me to take charge of you to the shore, Miss Wetheral," continued his lordship.

Christobelle hesitated. "Captain Ponsonby, I believe—I rather think...."

"Of course I must give way," replied his lordship, drily, "of course every thing must give way to Captain Ponsonby."

Captain Ponsonby came up, to announce all was in readiness; and the party rose to prepare for departure. Lady Wetheral approached her daughter.

"Bell, you are devoting yourself very publicly to Captain Ponsonby. I intreat you to be cautious, and accept Lord Farnborough's offer of attendance."

"Mamma, I am offended with Lord Farnborough."

"Do not be silly, Miss Wetheral; this is not the moment to exhibit offended feelings. I wish you to walk with my lord, and return under his charge."

Lady Anna Herbert passed, leaning on Mr. Grey's arm. "Be quick, fair ladies, for there is every chance of rain," she exclaimed; "the boatmen prognosticate weather before we reach the main land."

There was much bustle in hurrying into the boats, and the wind rose suddenly, sweeping in gusts over the lake, ere the party left the island. Christobelle was hurried rapidly into the little vessel, between Lord Farnborough and Captain Ponsonby, and the rain began to descend in torrents, as they placed her, in the confusion, between Sir John Spottiswoode and Fanny Ponsonby.

"On, on, for your lives!" cried Captain Ponsonby, addressing the boatmen, and the party were launched upon the waters of Lochleven.

Christobelle was by the side of Sir John Spottiswoode, and her mind was tranquil as they rowed rapidly towards Clanmoray. He held an umbrella over her head; and endeavoured to guard her from the storm, by spreading his cloak round her feet and knees. She felt distressed and uncomfortable at the thought of his own exposure to the rain and wind. She intreated him to suffer her to return the cloak, without which he must be cold and comfortless.

"No," he replied gravely, "I do not consider my own feelings, I wish to secure your comfort."

"But I have no comfort in depriving you of warmth and shelter: you will catch a severe cold."

"Never mind, Miss Wetheral; my mother and Sophia will nurse me well at Alverton."

"At Alverton!" exclaimed Christobelle, in astonishment, "at Alverton!"

"Why not, Miss Wetheral?" he asked in low tones, and his fine dark eyes were fixed upon her with such deep expression!

"Oh, no, if you are ill, I will nurse you; and Fairlee shall be your——."

Christobelle stopped: her heart beat thickly—she could not speak the conclusion of her sentence—a weight, as of iron, bore down her eyelids, and she remained silent.

"You have been happy to-day, my pupil?" said Sir John Spottiswoode, after a moment's pause.

Christobelle waved her hand silently. She could not trust her voice; but Fanny Ponsonby was talking to Lord Farnborough, and she was wretched at the allusion to Alverton. Curiosity, anxiety, and the horrors of suspense, gave her courage to address her companion again; and she asked, in the recklessness of despair, why he contemplated returning so soon into Shropshire.

"Because," he said, "Lochleven is now a fever spot upon my heart."

Christobelle wept silently. Captain Ponsonby sat in the stern of the boat without speaking, as though even his gay spirit could not resist the heavy rain, and every one appeared to be cold, weary, and dispirited. Except Fanny Ponsonby's voice, which sung, in low tones, a plaintive air, not a sound escaped the party till they reached the shore; and then commenced another disagreeable contention between Lord Farnborough and Captain Ponsonby.

"Miss Wetheral, I claim you this time," said his lordship, hastily passing Fanny Ponsonby, and offering his hand.

"My good fellow," cried Captain Ponsonby, "I am before you half a minute, and have won the prize."

"I cannot understand why you persevere so pertinaciously in appropriating Miss Wetheral, Ponsonby."

"Can you, indeed, be ignorant upon such a point, Farnborough? Take care, Miss Wetheral—step firmly, and hold my hand."

"I must observe that you are needlessly officious, Ponsonby."

"Tell me so elsewhere, Farnborough; at present, I am attending upon Miss Wetheral."

Christobelle looked imploringly at Sir John Spottiswoode, but he was uncloaking Fanny Ponsonby, and she had taken his arm, to share with him the shelter of his umbrella. Christobelle cared not, then, who became her escort. Captain Ponsonby would not understand Lord Farnborough's anger, or reply to his observations; he chatted gaily, as he unclasped the heavy boat-cloak, which shrouded and encumbered Miss Wetheral's figure.

"In spite of the storm, Miss Wetheral, you spring brightly from your nest, untouched by the raindrops; how do you manage to be so unlike the rest of the world? We will not wait for the other boat, which would detain us some time. Let me get you safely to Clanmoray. Take my arm fearlessly, and I will guide and support you up the pathway. Farnborough will be kind enough to escort the Miss Greys."

Lord Farnborough threw a haughty look at Captain Ponsonby, but he made no answer. His lordship folded his cloak round his tall, slight figure, and ascended the pathway in silence, and without a companion. The Miss Greys remained unattended on the shore of Lochleven.

"Farnborough is offended in earnest," observed Captain Ponsonby, "and the gentle syrens are to suffer. Miss Wetheral, you have put a feud between me and my noble guest."

"I am sorry, Captain Ponsonby, if any thing unpleasant should arise between you and my lord. It is altogether innocently done on my part."

"Oh! yes, you look so dove-like and so guileless, and yet you wield such warfare."

"Lord Farnborough appears easily irritated."

"Farnborough has been used to such easy conquests, that he resents the appearance of indifference. You have piqued him, Miss Wetheral; nevertheless, I am concerned to see the Miss Greys climbing the path alone in this rain. This is an unexpected termination to our agreeable day. It has been a really delightful day to me."

"Lochleven can never disappoint its visitors, Captain Ponsonby; even in this rain how beautiful it is!"

"Lochleven would, though, if certain persons and things did not combine to please me. I have enjoyed myself to-day—but you were my companion; I was with you at dinner—on the wall of the ruin—every where; and I have spent an extremely captivating day. I wonder what kind of day Farnborough will represent it?"

"As very agreeable, no doubt."

"I differ with you, Miss Wetheral. Fanny and your friend have seven league boots on, I fancy—how they are bounding on! I admire your friend, Miss Wetheral—fine, handsome fellow, only he looks melancholy."

"Does he?"

"Yes; his eyes were fixed upon your hand a full half hour at dinner—an hour, as we sat talking, and all the voyage; yet, like Lady Macbeth, his eyes were open, but their sense was closed. He has a lady-love in the south."

Christobelle started at Captain Ponsonby's suggestion. Impossible! she would not believe it! She never heard such a thing alluded to. If Sir John Spottiswoode loved in the south, Mrs. Pynsent would have named it. How came Captain Ponsonby to imagine such folly! The very supposition of Sir John's attachment, however, created pain, and chilled her into silence. Captain Ponsonby's conversation soon became wearisome, and she was glad when they reached Clanmoray.

It was a relief to find Lord Farnborough absent, and still more a relief to perceive the second party approaching in the distance. She wanted to be at Fairlee, to enjoy rest, and silence, and free communion with her thoughts. Captain Ponsonby's spirits were oppressive, and his polite anxiety amounted to absolute annoyance. Christobelle was ill, and restless, and eager to return home.

The carriage was ordered as soon as Lady Wetheral arrived, and the Fairlee party were supplied by Miss Ponsonby with comfortable refreshment in the article of stockings and shoes. Every other apparel had been spared, by the thoughtful cares of Mrs. Ponsonby, who had wisely ordered a depÔt of cloaks and umbrellas on board. Lord Farnborough did not appear during their short rest at Clanmoray, and Captain Ponsonby led Christobelle to the carriage, after the ceremonies of leave-taking had concluded. Miss Ponsonby hoped to enjoy Miss Wetheral's society a little more exclusively at a future time; but she seemed to be the entire property of Arthur and Lord Farnborough at St. Mungo's Isle. There was policy in allowing novelty to exhaust its powers of pleasing; and she would reserve her society till it would fill up a chasm, formed by the secession of an admirer. "Depend upon it, all this cannot last, fair Christobelle, and, like me, you will some day search in vain for a TÉlÉmaque."

"I shall not live to see the day, Miss Wetheral," said her brother, as he led Christobelle forward.

"Don't attach the smallest credit to Arthur's compliments," cried Miss Ponsonby, kissing her hand.

"Mary is very incorrect in her statements, Miss Wetheral," said Captain Ponsonby, as they passed through the hall. "You will receive me with a smile, if I call at Fairlee to-morrow?"

"With many smiles, Captain Ponsonby."

"No, one little particular welcome smile is my hope—give your many smiles to Farnborough. Fare you well!"

Christobelle entered the carriage, and Sir John Spottiswoode followed; but he seated himself by Lady Wetheral's side. Captain Ponsonby waved his hand, and stood in the rain, till the trees concealed him from sight.