that a man of carriston’s rank, breeding and refinement should meet his fate within the walls of a lonely farm-house, beyond the trossachs, seems incredible. one would scarcely expect to find among such humble surroundings a wife suitable to a man of his stamp. and yet when i saw the woman who had won him i neither wondered at the conquest nor did i blame him for weakness.

i made the great discovery on the morning after my arrival. eager to taste the freshness of the morning air, i rose betimes and went for a short stroll. i returned, and whilst standing at the door of the house, was positively startled by the beauty of a girl who passed me and entered, as if she was a regular inhabitant of the place. not a rosy scotch lassie, such as one would expect to find indigenous to the soil; but a slim, graceful girl, with delicate classical features. a girl with a mass of knotted light hair, yet with the apparent anomaly, dark eyes, eyelashes, and eyebrows—a combination which, to my mind, makes a style of beauty rare, irresistible, and dangerous above all others. the features which filled the exquisite oval of her face were refined and faultless. her complexion was pale, but its pallor in no way suggested anything save perfect health. to cut my enthusiastic description short, i may at once say it has never been my good fortune to cast my eyes on a lovelier creature than this young girl.

although her dress was of the plainest and simplest[219] description, no one could have mistaken her for a servant; and much as i admire the bonny, healthy scotch country lassie, i felt sure that mountain air had never reared a being of this ethereally beautiful type. as she passed me i raised my hat instinctively. she gracefully bent her golden head, and bade me a quiet but unembarrassed good-morning. my eyes followed her until she vanished at the end of the dark passage which led to the back of the house.

even during the brief glimpse i enjoyed of this fair unknown a strange idea occurred to me. there was a remarkable likeness between her delicate features and those, scarcely less delicate, of carriston. this resemblance may have added to the interest the girl’s appearance awoke in my mind. any way i entered our sitting-room, and, a prey to curiosity, and perhaps, hunger, awaited with much impatience the appearance of carriston—and breakfast.

the former arrived first. generally speaking he was afoot long before i was, but this morning we had reversed the usual order of things. as soon as i saw him i cried,

“carriston! tell me at once who is the lovely girl i met outside? an angel with dark eyes and golden hair. is she staying here like ourselves?”

a look of pleasure flashed into his eyes—a look which pretty well told me everything. nevertheless he answered as carelessly as if such lovely young women were as common to the mountain side as rocks and brambles.

“i expect you mean miss rowan; a niece of our worthy landlady. she lives with her.”

“she cannot be scotch, with such a face and eyes?”

“half-and-half. her father was called an englishman; but was, i believe, of french extraction. they say the name was originally rohan.”

carriston seemed to have made close inquiries as to miss rowan’s parentage.

“but what brings her here?” i asked.

“she has nowhere else to go. rowan was an artist. he married a sister of our hostess, and bore her away from her native land. some years ago she died, leaving this one daughter. last year the father died, penniless, they tell me, so the girl has since then lived with her only relative, her aunt.”

“well,” i said, “as you seem to know all about her, you can introduce me by and by.”

“with the greatest pleasure, if miss rowan permits,” said carriston. i was glad to hear him give the conditional promise with as much respect to the lady’s wishes as if she had been a duchess.

then, with the liberty a close friend may take, i drew toward me a portfolio, full, i presumed, of sketches of surrounding scenery. to my surprise carriston jumped up hastily and snatched it from me. “they are too bad to look at,” he said. as i struggled to regain possession, sundry strings broke, and, lo and behold! the floor was littered, not with delineations of rock, lake, and torrent, but with images of the young girl i had seen a few minutes before. full face, profile, three quarter face, five, even seven eight face, all were there—each study perfectly executed by carriston’s clever pencil. i threw myself into a chair and laughed aloud, whilst the young man, blushing and discomforted, quickly huddled the portraits between the covers, just as a genuine scotch lassie bore in the plentiful and, to me, very welcome breakfast.