The evening was too inviting not to tempt us out. Not a breeze ruffled its serenity; the moon shed her silver radiance o’er the tranquil scene. Mary, light of heart, bounded before us like a sylph. Sir Murdock spouted Ossian with enthusiastic delight. Your Rachel’s spirits had been disturbed, and to compose themselves they made an excursion—no matter where,—since they found repose. Lady Maclairn and Mrs. Allen, wisely judging that star-gazing and quoting, might not suit them so well as walking, proceeded to meet the truant Malcolm, in which purpose they succeeded; and we walked till a late hour. Amongst the various conjectures which my ingenuity has suggested in my endeavours to fathom the real character of Lady Maclairn, I began to suspect that she had some intention to circumvent her brother in his plans of securing my father’s property for _his_ favourite. She has hitherto most diligently adhered to the conditions I exacted, rarely mentioning even the name of her son Philip, whereas she frequently descants with fondness and eloquence on the merit and conduct of her “dear Malcolm,” “her prop,” “her boast.” I had even infused into Mrs. Allen’s mind something of my own suspicions, when on our return to the house after meeting with the young man, chance gave to me a secret which has quite overset this opinion of Lady Maclairn’s policy. Something which escaped Mary, whose arm I had taken, in the gaiety of her heart, produced from me the question, “Is then Mr. Maclairn a lover?”—“Yes,” replied she, “he has courted Miss Heartley a long time.” “Do Sir Murdock and his mother approve of his attachment?” “Oh dear, yes!” answered she, with innocent vivacity, “How should they do otherwise? She is one of the most amiable girls in the world, as well as the most virtuous and prudent of her sex. Besides, Malcolm and Alice have loved each other from their childhood, and they will never cease to love.” I was answered and satisfied. So you see, Lucy, these freaks of fancy happen _elsewhere_ as well as at _Heathcot_. I think in another century parents may discover the force of sympathy, and will think of some remedy for the mischief it may do whilst their children are in the cradle. It is a wretched business, when poor unfortunate beings, whose wealth is unequal, take it into their heads to yield to the attraction of sympathy. It is still worse, when the scale of fortune is empty on both sides. Might not the now useless sash worn by children round their waists, be usefully worn over their eyes till they are properly _married_? I speak only of those neglected children, who, left to nature’s lessons, are so apt to receive impressions from beings as devoid of instruction as themselves; for I am aware, that young people _properly_ educated for the world they are to live in, want no mufflers. They may be trusted with the use of their eyes; or should it happen that a beam of light dazzles them for a