sighs and groans,
occupies her till so late an hour that she is not always dressed for
callers.

Willie and I were reading The Lady of the Lake the other day, in the
back garden, surrounded by the verdant leafage of our own kale-yard.
It is a pretty spot when the sun shines, a trifle domestic in its air,
perhaps, but restful: Miss Grieve's dish-towels and aprons drying on the
currant bushes, the cat playing with a mutton-bone or a fish-tail on the
grass, and the little birds perching on the rims of our wash-boiler
and water-buckets. It can be reached only by way of the kitchen, which
somewhat lessens its value as a pleasure-ground or a rustic retreat, but
Willie and I retire there now and then for a quiet chat.

On this particular occasion Willie was declaiming the exciting verses
where Fitz-James and Murdoch are crossing the stream

'That joins Loch Katrine to Achray,'

where the crazed Blanche of Devan first appears:--

'All in the Trosachs' glen was still,
Noontide was sleeping on the hill:
Sudden his guide whoop'd loud and high--
"Murdoch! was that a signal cry?"'

"It was indeed," said Francesca, appearing suddenly at an upper window
overhanging the garden. "Pardon this intrusion, but the Castle people
are here," she continued in what is known as a stage whisper,--that is,
one that can be easily heard by a thousand persons,--"the Castle people
and the ladies from Pettybaw House; and Mr. Macdonald is coming down the
loaning; but Calamity Jane is making her toilet in the kitchen, and you
cannot take Mr. Beresford through into the sitting-room at present. She
says this hoose has so few conveniences that it's 'fair sickenin'.'"

"How long will she be?" queried Mr. Beresford anxiously, putting The
Lady of the Lake in his pocket, and pacing up and down between the rows
of cabbages.

"She has just begun. Whatever you do, don't unsettle her temper, for
she will have to prepare for eight to-day. I will send Mr. Macdonald and
Miss Macrae to the bakery for gingerbread, to gain time, and possibly
I can think of a way to rescue you. If I can't, are you tolerably
comfortable? Perhaps Miss Grieve won't mind Penelope, and she can come
through the kitchen any time and join us; but naturally you don't want
to be separated, that's the worst of being engaged. Of course I can
lower your tea in a tin bucket, and if it should rain I can throw out
umbrellas. Would you like your golf-caps, Pen? 'Won'erful blest in