The question brought her back to a prospect more near and important than the hills, one that she had been glad to put aside for the moment in favour of this wonderful and delightful scene. The moment at least was something gained, and she said to herself that she never would forget it--this first glimpse at the surroundings of her home. The other now had to be faced again, the interior landscape, which was not so delightful. “I think, dear James,” she said, “that they are both very shy and very strange between us two. They don’t know me at all, and you so little. Nature works, of course, on your side, but even Nature must have a little time. And for me, Nature is rather against me than for me. We must wait before we form any judgment.” “But your first impression is--bad, or if not bad, yet----” “It is not bad at all! Don’t take up false ideas. They are both so shy----” “Shy! Evelyn! do you think what you are saying? Marion shy!” “It is because she is shy that she chatters, poor little girl! Did you never know that was a form it took? Archie is silent, and she chatters. He is a little--rude, and she is a little--talkative. It is all from the same cause. You did not tell me what a pretty little thing she was, James.” “Pretty!--do you think she is pretty? She is not the least of your kind, Evelyn.” “I hope she is of a better kind. Next spring, when she has learned to make her courtesy, and is dressed regardless of expense; for I will take _carte blanche_, I warn you, so far as Marion is concerned--you shall see! She will make a sensation at the drawing-room.” A glow of beatitude came over James Rowland’s face. He almost hurt her arm with the pressure he gave it. “You think so? You really think so, Evelyn--before the Queen?” The warmth ran to his very heart, and came back in a sort of dew of happiness to his eyes. His little girl before the Queen! perhaps to be noted by that mother sovereign herself with a kindly eye. _His_ child! and he there to look on, paying the homage it would be more than his duty to pay. He stood for a moment clasping Evelyn’s arm, too glad to speak. And then--for the pain is more persistent than the pleasure--he added in a low confidential tone. “But the boy--is just a lout, poor lad?” It sounded like an assertion, but it was a question, and of the most anxious kind. “He is no lout, you unjust, abominable parent. I see at once the eyes you told me of--his mother’s eyes.” “One would think, to hear you, that you had seen his mother!” “I have through your eyes, James. I will never forget that first day. And I thought of her as we came across the Clyde.” “It was more than I did, Evelyn--with you there.” “She must have been there with you often, and thought you were talking nonsense; and now you have got all you ever dreamed of----” “And more!” he said; “and more!” again pressing her arm. “And now we have got to make it up,” said Evelyn, “to the two whom she has left to you--and to me, through you, James.”