‘Alec meant to have been at work over his books,’ said I; ‘but he was kind enough to show me something of the neighbourhood. It doesn’t matter in the least, Alec; I can easily find my way alone.’ ‘Oh, if you have any need for the boy, that’s another matter,’ said Mr. Lindsay. I protested again that I could find my way perfectly well, and moved off, while Alec turned into the field with a set look about his mouth that was not pleasant to see. The cause of the discontent I had seen in the lad’s face was plain enough now. He is treated like a child, as if he had no mind or will of his own. I wonder how the boy will turn out. It seems to me a toss-up; or rather, the chances are that he will break away altogether, and ruin himself. I went on my way to the bank of the river, by the side of a double row of Scotch firs. It was one of those perfect September days when the air is still warm, when a thin haze is hanging over all the land, when there is no sound to be heard but now and then the chirp of a bird, or the far-off lowing of cattle--a day in which it is enough, and more than enough, to sit still and drink in the silent influences of earth and heaven, when anything like occupation seems an insult to the sweetness and beauty of nature. Across the little river was a large plantation of firs, growing almost to the water’s edge; and I could feel the balmy scent of them in the air. As I reached the river I overtook Margaret Lindsay, who was walking a little way in advance of me. She had a book under her arm, an old volume covered in brown leather. We greeted each other, and I soon found that she was bound, like myself, for the ‘Lover’s Leap.’ ‘I will show you the place,’ she said; ‘we must cross the river here.’