"Then you do not reside at Monkscleugh?" "Within three miles of it." "I am going down to a shooting-lodge called Glenraven," hoping she would respond by naming her own abode. "Indeed! I know it; there are some lovely bits about there." "We shall be neighbors, then?" "Yes, in a certain sense. Here," she continued, turning over a fresh page of her book, "this is the outline of a very lovely brae and burn close to your abode." It was only a bit of broken bank; a stream, dotted with stones, lay below, with some mountain ash trees spreading their feathery foliage against the sky; but there were wonderful grace and beauty in the sketch. "This gives you a very faint idea of the reality," she resumed, in a low, soft tone, as if inwardly contemplating it. "The water is clear brown; it foams and chafes round these large black stones, and all sorts of delicious mosses and leaves lurk below the edge; and then ferns wave about the rocks on the brae, and there are gleams of purple heather and tufts of green, green grass, and behind here a great, wild, free hill-side. Oh, it is so quiet and dreamy there--delicious!" "And this delightful brae is near the lodge?" said Wilton, when she paused, after listening an instant in hopes she would speak on, there was such caressing sweetness in her voice. "No, not very near; almost a mile away, I think." She evidently knew the place well. "I hope you will continue to transfer the beauties of Glenraven after I become a dweller there." "Oh, yes; whenever I have time; to draw is my greatest pleasure." With all her frankness, he was not an inch nearer the discovery of her actual abode. "I suppose you do not live far from the scene of your sketch?" "Not far: Brosedale is quite a mile and a half on this side," touching the page with her pencil; "and the pathway to Monkscleugh goes over the brae." "Indeed! I imagine I have heard the name of Brosedale before." "Very likely; it is, I believe, the largest gentleman's seat in the neighborhood." "Yes, yes; I remember now: it belongs to Sir Peter Fergusson." "Exactly." "She cannot be his daughter," thought Wilton; "I suppose she must be the governess.--I understand he is quite the grand seigneur of Monkscleugh," he said aloud. "Well, I suppose so. He is a good little man--at least, whenever I see him he is very kind." After some further, but intermittent conversation, there was a sort of movement in the next room, and Wilton's companion begged him to go and see what was the matter. The matter was the arrival of the promised engine and train; so Wilton's conversation and inquiries were put an end to for the present. To his infinite disgust, when they resumed their places, a fat elderly man, a commercial traveller from Glasgow, intruded upon their _tête-à-tête_, and absorbed all the talk to himself. He was great in railway experiences, accidents included, and addressed a steady, unceasing flow of talk to Wilton, who burned to eject him summarily from the window.