Mrs. Hazleton, however, understood some points in her character, and by the long fixed look from beneath the dark sweeping lashes of her eye, by the faint sweet smile that gently curled her young, beautiful lip, and by the sort of gasping sigh after she had gazed breathless for some moments, she knew how intense was that gentle creature's delight in a scene, which to many an eye would have offered no peculiar charm. She would not suffer it to lose any of its first effect, and after a brief pause ordered the carriage to drive on. Still Emily continued to look onwards out of the carriage-window, and as the road turned in the descent, the castle and the ancient trees grouped themselves differently every minute. At length, as they came nearer, she said, turning to Mrs. Hazleton, "There seems to be a man standing at the very highest point of the old keep." "He must be bold indeed," replied her companion, looking out also. "When you come close to it, dear Emily, you will see that it requires the foot of a goat and the heart of a lion to climb up there over the rough, disjointed, tottering stones. Good Heaven, I hope he will not fall!" Emily closed her eyes. "It is very foolish," she said. "Oh, men have pleasure in such feats of daring," answered Mrs. Hazleton, "which we women cannot understand. He is coming down again as steadily as if he were treading a ball-room. I wish that tree were out of the way." In two or three minutes the carriage passed between two rows of old and somewhat decayed oaks, and stopped between the fine gate of the castle, covered with ivy, and rugged with the work of Time's too artistic hand, and a building which, if it did not detract from the picturesque beauty of the scene, certainly deprived it of all romance. There, just opposite the entrance, stood a small house, built apparently of stones stolen from the ruins, and bearing on a pole projecting from the front a large blue sign-board, on which was rudely painted in yellow, the figure of what we now call a French horn, while underneath appeared a long inscription to the following effect: "John Buttercross, at the sign of the Bugle Horn, sells wine and aqua vitae, and good lodgings to man and horse. N.B. Donkeys to be found within." Emily laughed, and in an instant came down to common earth. Mrs. Hazleton wished both John Buttercross and his sign in one fire or another; though she could not help owning that such a house in so remote a place might be a great convenience to visitors like herself. She took the matter quietly, however, returning Emily's gay look with one somewhat rueful, and saying, "Ah, dear girl, all very mundane and unromantic, but depend upon it the house has proved a blessing often to poor wanderers in bleak weather over these wild hills; and we ourselves may find it not so unpleasant by and by when Paul has spread our luncheon in the parlor, and we look out of its little casement at the old ruin there."