"Think?" pondered Cosmo, dreamily, as he lay back in a satin fauteuil, and gazed on the far-stretching landscape that was steeped in sunny haze. "Yes," said his mother, anxiously. "I think she has _not_ the lands and rental of Ardgour, or their equivalent." "Cosmo, Cosmo," said Lady Rohallion, with asperity, "I would have you to love Flora for herself, and herself only." "My dear mother, you old-fashioned folks in Carrick here are sadly behind the age; but I am booked for foreign service, and a wife would only prove a serious encumbrance after all." "Flora Warrender may change, or, what would be better, she may know her own mind before, or long before, you come back." "Perhaps," sneered Cosmo; "love of change or change of love effects miracles in the female heart at times. Till _then_, we must content ourselves with drawing stakes, while I march off, not exactly with the honours of war, but with the band playing 'the girl I left behind me'--very consoling it is no doubt, damme!" "Do you really love that girl, Cosmo?" asked the old lady, looking up from a mysterious piece of needlework, with which she always believed herself to be busy, and mistaking Cosmo's wounded self-esteem for a softer sentiment. "Love her--yes, of course I do--that is, well enough, perhaps, to marry her, as marriage goes now-a-days; but" (and here he spoke with concentrated passion) "I hate the beggar's brat who has come between her and me!" "Oh, Cosmo, don't say so, I implore you?" said Lady Rohallion, sighing bitterly; "after all the past, and with the doubt and mystery that overhang his future, I cannot bear to hear our lost Quentin spoken of thus." "Poor chick--our lost darling!" said Cosmo; "but after seventeen years spent in the Household Brigade, to be out-manoeuvred by a country Dolly such as Flora and a fellow like this Quentin of yours, is simply and decidedly absurd!" he added, with fierce grimace, while his father, who entered at that moment and overheard him, laughed heartily at his chagrin. And now about this time John Legate, the tall spindle-shanked running footman, brought, among other letters from Maybole, one for the Master, endorsed "on His Majesty's Service," and another for Mr. John Girvan, so worn, frayed, and covered with postage-marks, that the good man was quite puzzled by its appearance, and thrice wiped his spectacles to decipher all the names and dates, until the dominie, who was seated by him, beside a friendly jug of toddy, suggested that candles should be procured, as the twilight was deepening into night, and the interior of the missive would resolve all their doubts and expectations. It was opened, and proved to be from Quentin Kennedy--from Quentin, and dated at Poole's Military Coffeehouse, Edinburgh, more than a month back! He had addressed it simply to the castle of Rohallion, and it had gone by mail and stage over all Britain, until some chance hand, endorsing "try Ayrshire," sent it to its destination.