Julia was a wily sportswoman. She had often heard Captain John describe the method of tickling a trout, and here was a gudgeon whom she was minded to try her hand on, and capture, if possible, by that delicate process. Wallowby opened out and spread himself in the bland warmth of her approving smiles, like a very sunflower. He had truly never before realised what a remarkably fine fellow he was, and the revelation was delightful; and so, too, in consequence, was the fair prophetess who had disclosed it. Loch Gorton was fine, no doubt, and so too were the purple shadows slumbering among the hills beyond; but what were these in comparison to the heights and depths, long concealed under mists of modest diffidence, in the wondrous soul of Augustus Wallowby? The man fairly shimmered like a moonlit fountain, with coruscations of self-surprising wit and gratified vanity, while Circe cooed genially in response, still leading him onward into deeper quagmires of idiocy. Through gardens and shrubberies she led the way, and he followed closely behind, with ears laid luxuriatingly back; as the donkey whose poll has been deftly scratched will rub himself up against his new found friend, and court a continuance of the titillating process. Julia was actually discomposed by the rapidity of her success. Had she been in fun it would have been amusing, but she was a practical woman who meant business and a settlement for herself, so she feared to proceed too fast. Too speedy an inflation applied to so little solid substance might burst it, like a glass blower's freak, in a shower of spangles, to the mere idle glorification of the man himself; whereas if there was to be glass blowing, it was a useful goblet for _her_ that was wanted. To change the tune, therefore, she now led the way to the old square tower overtopping the shrubbery, which was all that remained of the ancient family residence. Here a larger share of the conversation devolved on herself, Scotch antiquities and history being altogether unfamiliar to her Southern friend. He listened, however, with respectful interest to her account of the early Drysdales. When a man is uncertain who may have been his own grandfather, or whether such a person ever existed, there is something impressive in the long line of progenitors claimed by other people, and their certainty as to the possession. Here among the crumbling walls they once inhabited, it was impossible to doubt about them,--a very legion of haughty shadows who had once ruled the surrounding country,--or not to feel a positive reverence for their surviving representative. This train of thought naturally led to Lady Caroline, and as Julia phrased it, 'my Cousin, Lord Pitthevlis.' In the presence of that noble house the pretensions of the Drysdales dwindled considerably,--came down almost within reach, as it were, of Mr. Wallowby's unhistoric self; and yet this magnificent family were cousins of the engaging maiden who stood before him and discoursed so