A low bow from his lordship pointed the compliment, and Christobelle curtseyed to its meaning. Sir John Spottiswoode would not enter into the unmeaning dialogue which succeeded: he pertinaciously avoided even lending a smile to Lord Farnborough. How deeply he resented, in Christobelle's eyes, the offence offered to his friend Beverly! It was a beautiful drive to Clanmoray. Lady Wetheral, forgetful of her long confinement--her nervous feelings--and the painful remembrance of Clara's death, chatted through the carriage-window with Lord Farnborough, as gaily and as sportively as ever. Christobelle amused herself with rallying Sir John Spottiswoode upon his illness, which she assured him was affected, to try the sympathy of his friends. He rebutted the idea with excellent good humour, and they entered the grounds of General Ponsonby in most merry mood. Two or three groupes were seated in picturesque attitudes, listening to Captain Ponsonby, who struck a guitar with great spirit, and amused the company with Spanish Boleros and Moorish songs. The Wetherals' arrival was the signal to embark; and, in the confusion of introductions, reception, compliments, decisions upon the fit and unfit, and Miss Ponsonby's determination to be the Lady of the Lake, Christobelle found herself descending the wooded hill which sloped to the waters' edge, escorted by Lord Farnborough and Mr. Ponsonby. Lady Wetheral followed closely upon her daughter's steps, leaning upon the arm of the Duke of Forfar. Christobelle cast lingering looks at the groupe which dotted the pathway, but she could not distinguish the figure of Sir John Spottiswoode. "Well, we look neat, however," said Mr. Ponsonby, cracking a whip, which never departed from his right hand. "Is my father near, Mr. Ponsonby?" Christobelle asked, anxiously. She was sure Sir John Spottiswoode would be near _him_, and her heart wished to ascertain his movements. She dared not appear interested in the whereabout of her "tutor," to attract notice. Mr. Ponsonby cracked his whip, and looked behind him. "Sir John Wetheral and your friend are escorting my sisters. Do observe the pretty effect of the groupe descending the glen." They turned to admire the picturesque figures which adorned the woody scene. Lady Wetheral also lingered with his Grace of Forfar, to gaze upon their effect. "These scenes are not to be found in Shropshire," observed his Grace. "The Wrekin lying upon the plain, like a whale in a dish, will be tame work when we can remember Lochleven." "And yet I sometimes sigh for the scenes I have quitted," said her ladyship. "I confess I love the busy hum of man, and Lochleven is dreary in the winter months. I wish I could persuade my daughter she is dull at Fairlee." "Miss Wetheral loves the grand seclusion of Lochleven, because her taste has not been vitiated by society."