“I will unravel it,” he said; “even were the mystery twenty times as great. I will fathom it. But first I will devote myself to Ronald.” It was August when they left Aldenmere. Sir Ronald would not go abroad. “I could not bear the sound of voices or the sight of faces,” he said, appealingly. “If I am to have change, let us go to some quiet Scotch village, where no one has ever heard my ill-fated name. If recovery be possible it must be away from all these inquiries and constant annoyance of visitors.” Mr. Eyrle understood the frame of mind that made his friend shrink from all observation. “I must manage by degrees,” he thought. “First of all, he shall have solitude and isolation, then cheerful society until he is himself again--all for your sake, my lost love, my dear, dead darling--all because he is the man you loved, and to whom you gave your loving, innocent heart.” When Kenelm Eyrle left Aldenmere, at the bottom of his traveling trunk there was a small box containing the white rose he had taken from Lady Alden’s dead hand. CHAPTER VII. THE RIVAL BEAUTIES. The neighborhood of Leeholme was essentially an aristocratic one; in fact, Leeholme calls itself a patrician country, and prides itself on its freedom of all manufacturing towns. It is essentially devoted to agriculture, and has rich pasture lands, fertile meadows and luxuriant gardens. The Aldens of Aldenmere were, perhaps, the oldest family of any. Aldenmere was a magnificent estate; the grounds were more extensive and beautiful than any other in the country. Nature had done her utmost for them; art had not been neglected. The name was derived from a large sheet of water formed by the river Lee--a clear, broad, deep mere, always cool, shaded by large trees, with water lilies lying on its bosom. The great beauty of the place was the mere. Holme Woods belonged to the estate; they bordered on the pretty, picturesque village of Holme--the whole of which belonged to the lords of Alden--quaint homesteads, fertile farms and broad meadows, well-watered, surrounded the village. Not more than five miles away was the stately and picturesque mansion of Mount Severn, built on the summit of a green, sloping hill. Its late owner, Charles Severn, Esq., had been one of the most eminent statesmen who of late years had left a mark upon the times. He had served his country well and faithfully; he had left a name honored by all who knew it; he had done good in his generation, and when he died all Europe lamented a truly great and famous man.