, it would be to
observe the noble candour that dwelt in the eyes, and the sweetness--at
times even playfulness--that hovered round the mouth. Regarding her
for the third time, you would see a woman whom you felt sure you must
perforce respect, and might, in time, love very much, if she would let
you. Of that gracious permission you would long have considerable doubt;
but once granted, you would never unlove her to the end of your days.
As for her loving _you_, you would not be quite clear that it did not
spring from the generous benevolence of her nature, rather than from
any individual warmth toward yourself; and such was the reserve of her
character, that, were her affection, ever so deep, she might possibly
never let you know it until the day of your death.

Yet she was capable of attachments, strong as her own nature. All her
feelings, passions, energies, were on a grand scale: in her were no
petty feminine follies--no weak, narrow illiberalities of judgment. She
had the soul of a man and the heart of a woman.

"You were gardening, I see?" said Captain Rothesay, making the first
ordinary remark that came to his mind to break the awkward pause.

"Yes; I do so every fine evening. Harold is very fond of flowers.
That reminds me I must call him to you at once, as it is
Wednesday,--service-night, and he will be engaged in his duties soon."

"Pray, let us enter the house; I should much like to see your son," said
Angus Rothesay. He gave her his arm; and they walked together, through
the green alleys of holly, to the front-door. Then Mrs. Gwynne stopped,
put her hand oyer her eyes for a moment, removed it, and looked
earnestly at her guest.

"Angus Rothesay! how strange this seems!--like a dream--a dream of
thirty years. Well, let us go in."

Mechanically, and yet in a subdued, absent manner, she laid her bonnet
and shawl on the hall-table, and took off her gardening gloves, thereby
discovering hands, which, though large, were white and well formed,
and in their round, taper delicacy, exhibited no sign of age. Captain
Rothesay, without pausing to think, took the right hand.

"Ah! you wear still the ring I used to play with when a boy. I
thought"---- and recollecting himself, he stopped, ashamed of his
discourtesy in alluding to what must have been a painful past.

But she said, quietly, sadly, "You have a good memory. Yes, I wear it
again now. It was left to me, ten years since, on the death of Archibald
Maclean.