But she sat out the performance bravely, trying to conceal her first impressions, now and then carried away by a splendid outburst of melody, but still keeping close to her text that Lucy Ashton could not have had the heart. ‘How could she have remembered to sing like that, if her heart was breaking?’ said Isabel; and there was a painful pang in her own which she could not explain. She seemed to see those glasses before her even on the way out, gazing at her from behind a pillar. They were before her eyes all the way home, and withdrew her attention even from Lady Mary’s lamentations over her want of musical taste. ‘But I see it is because you are not used to it,’ Lady Mary said at last. ‘Half a dozen more evenings would make you think so differently. Oh, Mr. Lothian, stay a little longer, and let us educate your wife!’ ‘It would take a longer time than we can spare,’ said the minister, only half pleased with the suggestion; and Isabel gave a little shudder in her corner. She was thinking of that opera-glass, and of the high crest of hair rising behind it, and the air of the half-seen figure. Could it be----? Whom could it be? It was the only unsuccessful attempt at pleasure she had made since they went to town. CHAPTER XXX The Loch was in full beauty when the minister and his wife returned home. It was a clear, lovely summer night, with stretches of daffodil sky over the blue hills towards the west, and a pale young moon glimpsing at herself in the water. The flowers were all bright in the Manse garden, the villagers nodding pleasant recognition, the Loch all cheerful with boats skimming like seabirds over the water. ‘This is worth London twenty times over,’ Mr. Lothian said. ‘Are you glad or sorry, Isabel, to come home?’ ‘Glad,’ she said, standing by his side, looking out well pleased on the scene she knew so well. ‘But I am glad we went, too. Seeing things makes people experienced; it is like growing old. But you should not laugh at everything I say.’ ‘It is not at you, my dear,’ said the minister; ‘but do not get old on my account, my darling. I like my bonnie Isabel to be young.’ ‘I should like to be thirty,’ she said, with a soft laugh; ‘then I would be nearer you.’ ‘You could be no nearer me,’ he said, drawing her close to him, ‘my bonnie darling! Remember always that I could not be happier, Isabel. I have the desire of my heart.’ Why this little scene should have taken so solemn a tone, neither could tell. One moment they had laughed, and the very next moment he was making this little confession of supreme happiness as if for her comfort when he should be away from her. But he was not going away from her; neither was there any possibility of estrangement in their future. There was no passion in Isabel’s mind to make her exacting or difficult. She held up her soft cheek to him, and he kissed her as if she had been his daughter.