Pleased at this merry reference to our meeting on the Wengern Alp, I was yet embarrassed to find that nothing more suggested itself to be said. But while I was quieting my mare, which happily afforded me some pretext at the moment, another voice fell on my ear--hoarse, but breezy and pleasant. ‘So, Clara, you are no sooner back to old quarters than you give a rendezvous at the garden-gate--eh, girl?’ ‘Rather an ill-chosen spot for the purpose, papa,’ she returned, laughing, ‘especially as the gentleman has too much to do with his horse to get off and talk to me.’ ‘Ah! our old friend Mr Cumbermede, I declare! Only rather more of him!’ he added, laughing, as he opened the little gate in the wire fence, and coming up to me, shook hands heartily. ‘Delighted to see you, Mr Cumbermede. Have you left Oxford for good?’ ‘Yes,’ I answered--‘some time ago.’ ‘And may I ask what you’re turning your attention to now?’ ‘Well, I hardly like to confess it, but I mean to have a try at--something in the literary way.’ ‘Plucky enough! The paths of literature are not certainly the paths of pleasantness or of peace even--so far as ever I heard. Somebody said you were going in for the law.’ ‘I thought there were too many lawyers already. One so often hears of barristers with nothing to do, and glad to take to the pen, that I thought it might be better to begin with what I should most probably come to at last.’ ‘Ah! but, Mr Cumbermede, there are other departments of the law which bring quicker returns than the bar. If you would put yourself in my hands now, you should be earning your bread at least within a couple of years or so.’ ‘You are very kind,’ I returned, heartily, for he spoke as if he meant what he said; ‘but you see I have a leaning to the one and not to the other. I should like to have a try first, at all events.’ ‘Well, perhaps it’s better to begin by following your bent. You may find the road take a turn, though.’ ‘Perhaps. I will go on till it does, though.’ While we talked, Clara had followed her father, and was now patting my mare’s neck with a nice, plump, fair-fingered hand. The creature stood with her arched neck and small head turned lovingly towards her. ‘What a nice white thing you have got to ride!’ she said. ‘I hope it is your own.’ ‘Why do you hope that?’ I asked. ‘Because it’s best to ride your own horse, isn’t it?’ she answered, looking up naïvely. ‘Would _you_ like to ride her? I believe she has carried a lady, though not since she came into my possession.’ Instead of answering me, she looked round at her father, who stood by smiling benignantly. Her look said-- ‘If papa would let me.’ He did not reply, but seemed waiting. I resumed. ‘Are you a good horsewoman, Miss--Clara?’ I said, with a feel after the recovery of old privileges. ‘I must not sing my own praises, Mr--Wilfrid,’ she rejoined, ‘but I _have_ ridden in Rotten Row, and I believe without any signal disgrace.’