Here was the well where the huntsman and soldier, James V., had slaked his thirst in the forest; and there was the oak under which his father—who fell at Flodden—shot the monarch of the herd by a single bolt from his crossbow. In short, Calderwood, with all its memories, was a complete epitome of the past. The Eastern Lomond (so called, like its brothers, from Laomain, a Celtic hero), now reddened by the setting sun, seemed beautiful with the green verdure that at all seasons covers it to the summit, as we approached the house. Ascending to the richly-carved entrance-door, where one, whilom of oak and iron, had given place to another of plate-glass, a footman, powdered, precise, liveried, and aiguilletted, with the usual amplitude of calf and acute facial angle of his remarkable fraternity, appeared; but ere he could touch the handle it was flung open, and a handsome young girl, with a blooming complexion, sparkling eyes, and a bright and joyous smile, rushed down the steps to meet us. "Welcome to Calderwood, Newton," she exclaimed; "may our new year be a happy one." "Many happy ones be yours, Cora," said I, kissing her cheek. "Though I am changed since we last met, your eyes have proved clearer than those of uncle, for, really, he did not know me." "Oh, papa, was it so?" she asked, while her fine eyes swam with fun and pleasure. "A fact, my dear girl." "Ah! I could never be so dull, though you have those new dragoon appendages," said she, laughingly, as I drew her arm through mine, and we passed into a long and stately corridor, furnished with cabinets, busts, paintings, and suits of mail, towards the drawing-room; "and I am not married yet, Newton," she added, with another bright smile. "But there must be some favoured man, eh, Cora?" "No," she said, with a tinge of hauteur over her playfulness, "none." "Time enough to think of marrying, Cora; why, you are only nineteen, and I hope to dance at your wedding when I return from Turkey." "Turkey," she repeated, while a cloud came over her pure and happy face; "oh, don’t talk of that, Newton; I had forgotten it!" "Yes; does it seem a long, or a doubtful time to look forward to?" "It seems both, Newton." "Well, cousin, with those soft violet eyes of yours, and those black, shining braids (the tempting mistletoe is just over your head), and with loves of bonnets, well-fitting gloves and kid boots, dresses ever new and of every hue, you cannot fail to conquer, whenever you please." She gave me a full, keen glance, that seemed expressive of annoyance, and said, with a little sigh— "You don’t understand me, Newton. We have been so long separated that I think you have forgotten all the peculiarities of my character now." "What the deuce can she mean?" thought I.