echoes of the masters?
Or the more quick-spirited Lady Rosamund, the imperious and petulant
beauty, who, in a way most unwonted with her, had bestowed upon him
exceptional favor? Or that atrocious little flirt, Miss Georgie
Lestrange, with her saucy smiles and speeches, her malicious laugh, and
demure, significant eyes?--it was hardly to be wondered at if she made
an impression on any young man, for the minx had an abundance of good
looks, despite her ruddy hair and pert nose. As for Miss Honnor
Cunyngham--oh, no!--she was too far away--she lived remote, isolated,
apart--she neither gave nor demanded sympathy or society--she was
sufficient unto herself alone. But why ask whether it were this one or
that? Soon he would be forgotten by them all. He would be swallowed up
in the great city--swept away in the current of its feverish
activities--his voice hardly heard above the general din; while they
would still be pursuing their various pastimes in this little world of
solitude and quiet, or moving on to entertain their friends with the
more pompous festivities of the Braes.

It was odd that he should be carrying away with him the seeds of
homesickness for a place in which his stay had been counted by weeks. So
anxious, indeed, was he to assure himself that his relations with that
beautiful valley and its inmates were not entirely severed that, the
moment he reached Inverness, instead of going into the Station Hotel and
ordering his dinner like a reasonable being, he must needs go
straightway off to Mr. Watson's shop.

"I suppose," said he, with a little hesitation--for he did not know
whether to mention Miss Cunyngham's name or not--he was afraid he might
betray some quite uncalled-for embarrassment--"I suppose you know the
flies they use on the Aivron this time of year."

Mr. Watson knew well enough; who better!

"I mean on the Strathaivron Lodge stretch of the water?" Lionel
continued.

"Oh, yes; I am often sending flies to Miss Cunyngham," was the answer.

"Oh, Miss Cunyngham?" said Lionel. "It is for her I want some flies."

"Very well, sir, I will make up a small packet, and send it to her? Miss
Cunyngham has an account with me--"

"No, no, that isn't what I mean at all," Lionel interposed, hastily. "I
want to make Miss Cunyngham a little present. The fact is, I was using
her book," he observed, with some importance (as if it could in the
least concern a worthy tackle-maker in Inverness to know who had gone