It soon became sufficiently evident that it was not solely for fishing and shooting that Mr. Frank Meredyth had come to Loch-garra; keepers, gillies, dogs, guns, fly-books occupied but little of his attention, while Mary Stanley occupied much; moreover, the zeal with which he prosecuted his suit was favoured by an abundance of opportunities. Indeed it must often have occurred to our country cousins—to those of them, at least, who have ventured to speculate on such dark mysteries—that courtship in a big and busy town like London must be a very difficult thing, demanding all kinds of subterfuges, plans, and lyings-in-wait. Or is it possible at all? they may ask, looking around at their own happy chances. The after-service stroll home on a Sunday morning, along a honeysuckle lane—the little groups of twos and threes getting widely scattered—is a much more secret and subtle thing than the crowded church-parade of Hyde Park, where every young maiden’s features are being watched by a thousand amateur detectives. To sit out a dance is all very well—to take up a position on the staircase and affect to ignore the never-ending procession of ascending and descending guests; but it is surely inferior to the idle exploration of an old-fashioned rustic garden, with its red-brick walls and courts, its unintentional mazes, its leafy screens—while the tennis-lawn and the shade of trees, and ices and strawberries, hold the dowagers remote. And if these be the opportunities of the country, look at those of a distant sea-side solitude—the lonely little bays, the intervening headlands, the moonlight wanderings along the magic shores. Even in the day-time, when all this small world of Loch-garra was busy, there were many chances of companionship, of which he was not slow to avail himself. The Twelfth was not yet; the water in the Garra was far too low for fishing; what better could this young man do than go about with Mary Stanley, admiring her bland, good-natured ways, sympathising in her beneficent labour, and participating in it by the only method known to him—that is to say, by the simple process of purchase? One consequence of all which was that he gradually became the owner of a vast and quite useless collection of home-shapen sticks, home-knitted stockings, homespun plaids, and what not; although, being only the younger son of a not very wealthy Welsh baronet, Frank Meredyth was not usually supposed to be overburdened with cash. But he said he would have a sale of these articles when he went south; and if there were any profit he would return it to Miss Stanley, to be expended as she might think fit.