the vapour had filled with
coloured lights. As yet sunrise was not.

In front of the house, where a grey rock started from the very
edge of the bank, spreading a platform above the precipice,
sat Wych Hazel; her feet so nearly over the rock that they
seemed resting on the mist itself; her white scarf falling
back from her head like a wreath of lighted coloured vapour.
Perhaps there were no other strangers to the Mountain House
within its walls; perhaps the morning was too chill; perhaps
all of the 'candidates' were on the other side; for she sat
alone. Until the flaming torch of Sirius paled, until the dawn
began to shimmer and gleam among the fleeces of mist,--until
they parted here and there before the arrows of light, showing
spires and houses and a bit of the river in the far distance.
So fair, unfeatured, misty and sparkling at once, lay life
before the young gazer. Mr. Falkirk might have moralized thus,
standing close behind her as he was, still and silent; but it
is not likely he did; useless moralizing was never in Mr.
Falkirk's way.

'How do you like your fortune, Miss Hazel, as you find it at
present?' he said.

'Very undefined, sir. Good morning, Mr. Falkirk--what made you
get up?'

'My knowledge of your character.'

'So attractive, sir?' She glanced up at him, then looked away
over the mist, with her arms crossed over her bosom and a
grave look of thought settling down upon her young face; as if
womanhood were dawning upon her, with its mysterious
opalescent light.

'Evangeline saw her way all clear when she reached the
mountain-top,' she said musingly; 'but mine looks misty
enough. Mr. Falkirk, will this fog clear away before sunset?'

'Or settle down into rain.'

But while he spoke, the sun mounting higher, shot through the
very heart of the mist; and the broken clouds began to roll
away in golden vapour, or were furled and drawn up with bands
of light. And now came voices from the piazza.

'You knew it last night, Mr. Kingsland? and never told me!'
said an oldish lady. 'And there is the sweet creature this
minute, on the rock!'

Wych Hazel sprang to her feet. 'Mr. Falkirk,' she said, 'you
are inquired for;'--and darting past him she vanished round the
house. Mr. Falkirk, as in duty bound, followed, but when a
needful point of view was attained, his charge was nowhere
within sight, and he returned to the house to be in readiness
to meet her when the bell should ring for breakfast.

But