_Ennuyée_ with the _dolce far niente_ of the morning, Miss Sutherland ordered her carriage to return home. Uncle Billy begged a seat inside, and Mr. Sutherland and (at the invitation of the latter) Mr. Lauderdale mounted horses to attend the party. Their way lay through a beautiful piece of woods, that covered the hill, just rising, and then gradually declining to the river. They crossed by a ferry. This part of the river, being the head of the bend, resembled a beautiful woodland lake, lying embosomed among its green hills and groves, which were all distinctly reflected in the water, that was flushed with a pale purple light, changing ever into azure or crimson, or fading off into faint beautiful hues of pink or saffron. “Oh! it is well named the Pearl—this lovely river—though it might as well be called the Opal,” said Billy Bolling, who had a taste for natural beauty. They were but few minutes in reaching the other bank of the river, and landing at Cashmere. Arrived at Cashmere, the party passed up the winding road leading through the groves and shrubberies of the lawn, to the foot of the marble steps leading to the rose terrace, and there alighting, passed through the verandah into the house. Laughingly Mrs. Vivian took immediate possession of Miss Sutherland, and carried her off to seek Rosalie. Mr. Sutherland, senior, happened to be in the house, and Mark immediately introduced his friend Lauderdale. The old gentleman welcomed the stranger with the stately suavity habitual to men of his day and station; but he received his nephew with an earnestness of affection scarcely restrained by the presence of a third party—pressing his hand with much warmth, and detaining it lingeringly in his clasp. Mark Sutherland could hardly repress a groan, to think how soon all this must be changed. Nay, more: he even felt a species of compunction for receiving his uncle’s kindness under what he felt to be false colours; and he determined, if possible, not to let an hour pass before having a full explanation with him. And so, after the first compliments were over, and when the planter arose and politely excused himself, saying that important business called him over to his new plantation, and expressing a hope that Mr. Lauderdale would consider his house, servants, and stables, entirely at his commands, Mark Sutherland laid his hand solemnly upon his arm, and said— “My dear uncle, I must have a conversation with you this morning.” “My dear Mark,” said the old man, smiling—if it could be called a smile—“I know what you are about to ask, and I answer beforehand, _just as soon as India pleases_. The sooner the better. I speak freely before your friend”—bowing to the latter—“whom, I presume, you have persuaded to do you the honour of attending you upon the occasion. Consult my daughter! You know her will is law in this affair.”