Winter passed, and the early spring brought news to Mr. Jerningham. A noble Scottish kinsman had died, leaving him a handsome estate in Perthshire. It was necessary that he should visit this new acquisition, and make all arrangements for its due maintenance; but he was sorely averse from leaving Greenlands, and the simple household in which he had learned to be happy. “I suppose I must go,” he said; “Lord Pendarvoch was a confirmed miser, and I know he kept the place in a most miserable condition. When I was last in the neighbourhood, many years ago, there was not a fence fit for a civilized country, or a boundary-wall that kept out his neighbour’s cattle. Yes, I suppose I must go and take possession, and shake hands with my tacksmen, and establish my claim to be regarded as a scion of the true blood--though it comes to me zigzag fashion, through a female branch of the old house. My mother’s mother was an aunt of the last lord.” Mr. Jerningham lapsed into reverie. It was early April; green buds already bursting in the old-fashioned garden, and a wealth of pear and plum-blossom, snowy white; but the rich red of the apple-trees not yet opened. Tulip and hyacinth, polyanthus and primrose, were bright in the borders; rich red wallflowers bloomed on the old wall; all the garden was gay with the fresh spring blossoms. “Do you remember what you said about Switzerland, Helen?” Mr. Jerningham asked, abruptly, after rather a long silence. “I remember saying a great deal about Switzerland.” “And of your desire to see that country?” “Yes, indeed! but that is too bright a dream. Papa confesses that his book is the kind of book that never _is_ finished. William Mure of Caldwell did not live to finish his book, you know, though the subject is a narrow one compared to the theme of my dear father’s labours; and Müller’s book was left unfinished. How can I ever hope to go to Switzerland, since I should care nothing for the most beautiful land unless papa was my fellow-traveller?” “We will persuade your father to publish the first two volumes of his book some day, and then we can all start for Switzerland together. But in the meantime allow me to inquire if you have ever thought about Scotland?” “I have read Sir Walter Scott’s delightful stories.” “Of course,” cried Mr. Jerningham, with unwonted vivacity; “and those charming romances have inspired you with an ardent desire to behold the scenes which they embellish--the land of mountain and of fell, the land of Macgregor and Ravenswood, of heart-broken Lucy Ashton and weird Meg Merrilies. Do not think of Switzerland till you have seen the Scottish highlands.” “But the snow!” urged Helen.