Inspired by the beauty of the evening, lulled by the summer hum of insect life among the flowers, and all unaware that her lover, with his gun on his shoulder and wrath in his young heart, was plunging pitilessly through some one's corn, Flora was musing or dreaming, as only a young girl dreams or muses, on what fate had in store for her now, with this new inmate of her present home. Mr. Walter Scott's new poem "Marmion" had fallen from her hand, which was ungloved, and so, pure in whiteness and delicacy, was half hidden among her dark and wavy hair, as she reclined with her elbow upon the arm of a moss-grown seat, which yet bears the date, 1590, with the Rohallion arms and coronet, upon a hanging shield. The fingers of her left hand were playing unconsciously with the strings of her gipsy hat, which lay upon the gravel at her feet; and as the Master approached her, the young lady seemed the perfection of bloom and beauty, as she sat enshrined in the glory of the sunset that streamed along the alley of the labyrinth. His costume was very accurate, for the gentleman and the tradesman did not then, as now, dress exactly alike, and wear exactly the same stuffs; and certainly Cosmo was looking his best, as he seated himself by her side and very deliberately took possession of her left hand, saying in a voice which he meant to be, and which had often enough proved elsewhere to be, very seductive.-- "I fear, my dear Miss Warrender, that this gloomy old barrack is not a place for you to vegetate in." "How so, sir?" she asked, while regarding him with a quiet smile. "It too evidently influences your naturally joyous temperament; and pardon me, you look _triste_." "Oh, no--your mother is quite one to me, and I love Rohallion very much." "Then as for Ardgour, I think it gloomier still." "Some parts of Ardgour--the vaults, I believe--are said to be coeval with the Bruce's castle of Turnberry; at least so the dominie told me. Mamma so loved it; and for her sake, I love it too." "Very proper, and very pretty; but the world of fashion--a brilliant world, of which you know nothing--should be your sphere, my dear Miss Warrender. London, Brighton, the Prince's balls at Carlton House, the parks, the theatre, the opera! You must come forth from your shell, my dear Flora, like--like--like (he thought of Venus rising from the sea, but the simile was not apt)--for you know it is absurd, positively absurd, that you should be buried alive in this horrid old-fashioned Scotch place, among rocks and rooks, ivy and ghost stories. Egad! were the house mine, I'd blow it up, and build one more suitable to the present time and its requirements." "What! would you really uproot this fine old place of so many historic memories?" "To the last stone! What the devil--pardon me--do old memories matter now, my dear girl? _En avant!_ we should look forward--never back." "I am sorry that your sentiments are so prosaic," said Flora, coldly.