There was Frank Berwick dragging along a reluctant donkey, which Sir Ralph was encouraging on the other side to hasten its movements. With a cry of pleasure little Sybil ran hack to her uncle, who lifted her on to her steed. Hardly had he done so, when Vladimir appeared with a pencilled note for Sir Ralph. He glanced at it, and with a clouded face, turned to the young officer. “Berwick,” said he, “I must go to look after some or my mother’s other guests. Will you help with Sybil’s donkey? I any sorry to trouble you, but unless some one leads it, she could not make it go up this steep path.” “Certainly,” said Frank, heartily, “you may trust me to get it safely to the top.” So Ralph left them. On the whole, I don’t think Frank would have regretted if Mr. Price had done the same. But this did not appear to be that worthy gentleman’s intention. So Captain Berwick consoled himself by engaging Marion steadily in conversation, and thus obliging her to walk at the other side of the donkey’s head; for she could not have been cold or inattentive to one who was showing such good nature to her little pupil. At last they got to the top. Most of the party were there before them, for the donkey’s tardiness had delayed them. There was a sort of terrace round the cottage, or châlet rather, from which the view was supposed to be seen in perfection. It was indeed beautiful! If only there had not been such a crowd of people talking about it! How the young ladies cluttered and admired, how the gentlemen thought it their duty to agree with their observations, however inane! All but Ralph. When Marion first caught sight of him he was standing perfectly silent beside Florence, who was speaking to him in a low voice, from time to time raising her beautiful, lustrous eyes to his face, with a look half of questioning, half of appeal. It was some mere trifle she was asking him about, but, as she watched them, Marion thought to herself that Sir Ralph must indeed be strangely almost unnaturally callous, to resist the fascination of such loveliness. Somehow she felt glad when the chorus of enthusiastic admiration calmed down again and, the little groups dispersed. Before long whispers of “luncheon” began to run through the party, and they all adjourned to a smooth lawn on the other side of the châlet, where picnic parties were accustomed to dine. Marion found herself seated near Cissy, who looked rather tired. She whispered to Marion: “How nice it would be if all these people were away!” Still, it was very amusing, on the whole. There were dignified Lady Severn and fat Mrs. Berwick, seated on the grass, vainly endeavouring to preserve the equilibrium of their plates and glasses. Mr. Chepstow, in a peculiar attitude, looking more like a magnified frog than a portly, middle-aged Englishman; and insisting, in his exaggerated politeness, on constantly unsettling himself to fetch something or other which he imagined some lady beside him to be in want of.