When silent time, wi' lightly foot, Had trod on thirty years, I sought again my native land Wi' mony hopes and fears. As I drew near my ancient pile, My heart beat a' the way; The place I passed seemed yet to speak Of some dear former day. Some pensy chiels, a new-sprung race, Wad next their welcome pay; * * * * * But sair on ilka well-kenned face I missed the youthful bloom. Miss Blamire Oliver had sent orders to his mother to sleep in London, and proceed the next morning by a train which would arrive at about two o'clock. On that eventful morning, Clara was the prey of Mrs. Beckett, Marianne, and the French milliner, and in such a flounced glace silk, such a lace mantle, and such a flowery bonnet was she arrayed, that Lord Ormersfield bowed to her as a stranger, and Louis talked of the transformations of the Giraffe. 'Is it not humiliating,' she said, 'to be so altered by finery? You might dress Isabel for ever, and her nobleness would surmount it all.' 'If you are not the rose, at least you have lived near the rose,' said Louis. 'You don't fall quite short of the character of Miss Dynevor.' 'I wish I were going to school,' said Clara, as they passed along familiar streets; 'then, at least, some one would pity me.' After two hours spent on the railroad, the train entered a district with the bleakness, but not the beauty, of the neighbourhood of mountains; the fresh September breeze was laden with smoke, and stations stood thick upon the line. As the train dashed up to one of these, a flag was seen waving, and the shout of 'Cheveleigh, Cheveleigh road!' greeted them. On the platform stood a tall footman, in the most crimson of coats, powdered hair, and a stupendous crimson and white shoulder-knot, auch as Clara had only seen going to St. James's. She would never have imagined that she had any concern with such splendour; but her grandmother asked him if the carriage were there, as a mere matter of course, and Jane devolved on him all luggage cares, as coolly as if she had been ruling over him all his life. As they issued from the station, a thin, uncertain, boyish cheer rang out, and before them stood a handsome open carriage and four chestnut horses, with crimson postillions, and huge crimson-and-white satin rosettes. 'Wont they all turn to rats and pumpkins?' whispered Clara to Louis. 'Bless the poor boy!' cried Mrs. Frost, between laughing and crying, 'what has he been about? Does he think I am the Sheriff's lady still?'