"Beverly has borne his injuries like a man, and like a Christian," returned Sir John. "All injuries should be forgiven; but some cannot be forgotten till memory fails." Again the little band of French horns swelled upon the still air, and the two vessels, which had sailed to the Douglas Isle, emerged from its deep shadow. Christobelle started up. "They are returning to Clanmoray so late! Oh! listen to that sweet, soft air." The simple strain of "Farewell to Lochaber" stole softly on their ear, and they sat silently gazing upon the little vessels, as they neared the cliff. Suddenly the music broke off, as if an accident had occurred; but the pause was of short duration--it was again broken by the lively and stirring notes of "My love she's but a lassie yet." The blood mounted to Christobelle's forehead with undisguised pleasure and surprise. She was discovered in her retreat by the party below, and an indescribable feeling shot across her heart, as it grasped at the idea that Lord Farnborough had chosen the air, and that he had commanded its execution, as the vessel passed the cliff. She leaned over the rocks, which formed a barricade before the rural seat, and in fancy she could distinguish the tall, slight figure of his lordship, standing in the stern, with folded arms, as he stood when she waved her plaid in the morning. Christobelle watched the vessel with intense attention, as it glided on, and exclaimed, with eager satisfaction, "I see him!--I could point him out among a hundred!" "Whom do you see?" asked Sir John Spottiswoode, as he rose and advanced to her side--"Whom are you noting?" Christobelle did not immediately reply. She continued gazing upon the lake, and several of the party were also observing them through their telescopes from below. "But, tell me, Miss Wetheral, whom you note among a hundred, in that party," repeated Sir John Spottiswoode. "He is standing with--no, he is sitting--that very large personage, the Duke of Forfar--you know the Duke of Forfar?" "Oh yes, I see. How gratified his Grace would be at the knowledge of having attracted your observation! I think I see Lord Farnborough." "Whom do you see?--I fancy I recognise Lady Anna Herbert's feather; and there is kind Miss Ponsonby," replied Christobelle, colouring. "Lord Farnborough is standing in the stern of the vessel, Miss Wetheral: he is waving something--his handkerchief. Who is he waving to?"