Evelyn came fully up to her husband’s expectations, which were not small, in the way of admiration. She had not, indeed, been thinking much about the beauty of the country, her mind being fully occupied by matters more important, so that the Clyde, and the loch, and Rosmore, burst upon her more or less as a surprise. She delighted Rowland, whose whole being was on the watch to see what she would say, by her exclamations. “What a beautiful situation! What a lovely view the people must have who live there. What is--Oh!” She broke off abruptly, seeing the flush of pleasure and broad smile of happiness which came over his face. “So that is Rosmore,” she added: “I can see it in your face!” “Ay, that’s just Rosmore,” he said, with a thickness in his voice; “and this is just the spot, if this confounded boat would stand still for a moment, where I have watched for it appearing since ever I was a lad, and wished and wondered if it would ever be mine.” He put his arm through hers, as he had a way of doing, and held her close--“And now it is mine; and you are mine, Evelyn, that was still more unlikely by far.” “You must not flatter me by comparing me to that beautiful place; and I pray God you may be very happy in it now you have got it. It is certainly an ideal place.” “Is it not?” cried Rowland, delighted. It is to be feared that he did not at that moment remember his poor homely Mary, who had been with him so often when he watched for the opening in the trees, and worshipped his idol afar off. “Toots, nonsense,” Mary had said, with a laugh at his absurdity, so many times. He did not think of her, but Evelyn did, with a curious tenderness for the simple little woman who, probably, by this time would have developed into a stout and matter-of-fact matron, and disappointed her husband as much as his children had done, although the love between them had been as true and full of natural poetry as any, _dans les temps_. Evelyn was quite aware of her husband’s shortcomings, and that there were various superficial failures in him which justified the superficial judgment that he was “not a gentleman,” that most damning of English criticism; but she knew at the same time how it was that the fact of his son not appearing a gentleman was the source of grief to him, and how critical his eyes would be, and how exacting his demands in this respect. Poor little Mary! Perhaps it was as well that she had died in the far-off poetical time. Evelyn felt a little moisture in the corner of her eye, and made a promise in her heart to the wife of James Rowland from the foundry, who was so different from James Rowland, the great railway man from India. “I will do what I can for them, Mary!” was what Evelyn said. Her husband saw the little glimmer on her eyelash, and pressed her arm with fond delight and pride. “I can never be thankful enough,” he said, “Evelyn, for the way you enter into your rough husband’s feelings--my bonnie lady of Rosmore!” That was the very