Mr. Hawke’s companion was a young Quaker, who had known Flora from a girl, and had always expressed the greatest interest in her welfare. Adam Mansel was a handsome, talented man, whose joyous disposition, and mirthful humour, could scarcely be trammelled down by the severe conventional rules of the Society to which he belonged. Adam’s exquisite taste for music, and his great admiration for horses and dogs, savoured rather of the camp of the enemy. But his love for these forbidden carnalities was always kept within bounds, and only known to a few very particular friends. “Friend Flora,” he said, taking her hand, and giving it a most hearty and cordial shake, “this is a sad day to those who have known thee long, and loved thee well; and a foul day for the commencement of such an important journey. Bad beginnings, they say, make bright endings; so there is hope for thee yet in the stormy cloud.” “Flora, where are your omens now?” said Lyndsay, triumphantly. “Either you or friend Adam must be wrong.” “Or the proverb I quoted, say rather,” returned Adam. “Proverbs often bear a double meaning, and can be interpreted as well one way as the other. The ancients were cunning fellows in this respect, and were determined to make themselves true prophets at any rate.” “What a miserable day,” said the poet, turning from the window, where he had been contemplating thoughtfully the gloomy aspect of things without. His eye fell sadly upon his son. “It is enough to chill the heart.” “When I was a boy at school,” said Adam, “I used to think that God sent all the rain upon holidays, on purpose to disappoint us of our sport. I found that most things in life happened contrary to our wishes; and I used to pray devoutly, that all the Saturdays might prove wet, firmly believing that it would be sure to turn out the reverse.” “According to your theory, Mansel,” said Mr. Hawke, “Mrs. Lyndsay must have prayed for a very fine day.” “Dost thee call this a holiday?” returned the Quaker, with a twinkle of quiet humour in his bright brown eyes. Mr. Hawke suppressed a sigh, and his glance again fell on his boy; and, hurrying to the window, he mechanically drew his hand across his eyes. Here the old Captain came bustling in, full of importance, chuckling, rubbing his hands, and shaking his dripping fearnaught, with an air of great satisfaction.