“It will be Archie,” she said to herself. Already, so quick is the contagion of a new sentiment, Marion had begun to be dissatisfied about Archie’s clothes. His coat was rough and badly made in comparison with his father’s coat; his boots were clumsy, his linen dingy. All these things she had found out for herself. Archie was not bad-looking: he was rather handsome than the reverse; but he had not at all the same appearance as his father, who was old and without any graces. This Marion discovered all by herself. She had not attained to any such enlightenment on her own account. When they got out at Rosmore pier, other revelations began. They found a dog-cart awaiting them with a beautiful horse and a groom, the perfection of whose get up was more than words could tell, though they were not learned enough to perceive that. Only a dog-cart!--Marion felt that she was coming down from the glories of “the carriage;” but the obsequiousness of everybody around reconciled her a little to the less dignified vehicle. The drive through the woods overawed the young people. They gave each other a look of unmingled gratification and dismay. When they reached the house itself, the dismay perhaps was uppermost, but they did not as yet venture to say a word. Nothing could be more beautiful than the situation of the house, or the woods which approached it, when everything was in the full height of summer; the sun blazing over a country in which at almost every corner there was a burn to toss back a dazzling ray. From the colonnade the view had been opened a little by judicious clearing, and the broad Clyde, like a silver sea, lay glistening at the foot of the knoll, with all its passing boats and sails, and the background of the smoky but not unpicturesque town throwing up its towers and spires on the other side of the estuary. They were impressed for a moment in spite of themselves, and lingered looking at the view while their father went indoors. “It’s awfully bonnie,” said Archie. “So it is,” said Marion, holding her breath a little. They stood side by side overawed, not venturing to say any more. Indoors they were still more silent, following their father from room to room. In every one of them were workmen, and every kind of luxurious article was being added to the original furniture. By-and-bye they became bewildered by the number of rooms and their names--dining-rooms and drawing-rooms were comprehensible, but the libraries, morning rooms, boudoirs, studies, made their heads go around. “And what’s this?” said Marion in bewilderment. “This is Mrs. Rowland’s own sitting-room,” said a polite functionary with what the young people characterised as an English accent. “What does she want,” said Marion, almost angrily, “with another sitting-room? when she’s got the dining-room and the drawing-room, the morning-room and the library.”