The Manoeuvring Mother (vol. 3 of 3)

The cover image was created by the transcriber from the original image and is placed in the public domain.
LONDON: F. SHOBERL, JUN., 51, RUPERT STREET, HAYMARKET, PRINTER TO H. R. H. PRINCE ALBERT.

Four years passed rapidly and tranquilly at Fairlee. The waters of Lochleven flowed at the foot of its undulating grounds, and the mountains of Glencoe terminated the grandly-beautiful and distant prospect which Christobelle gazed upon with untired delight, from the different points where she loved to sit in meditation, or employed herself in painting its glowing and ever-changing tints. Often did the forms of Anna Maria and Isabel appear before her, as she lingered upon the mountain-tops which overhung the lake, and watched the golden sun sink below the horizon.
Often did the woods and smiling lands of Wetheral appear to her mental view; and though its scenery, so flatly tame, sank into insignificance before the cloud-capped Cona, and the hills of many names which surrounded the rich and beautiful Lochleven—still, there was the remembrance of her first attachments; there were the forms she loved, and the hearts which loved her, fondly. There was the scene of her infancy, and there she had parted from her kind companion and friend, Sir John Spottiswoode.
Anna Maria's heart and eyes were given exclusively to her excellent husband, and Isabel was devoted to her child; but Sir John Spottiswoode had been for weeks her instructor, her only attendant, and the depository of her thoughts. She felt the loss of his society for months; and when she gazed upon the calm lake, or mused upon the rocky heights, each and all threw back her thoughts to Sir John Spottiswoode. Oh! what would he, the travelled one, the lover of grand scenery—what would he say to the bold and graceful scenery? What would he say to the combination of wood, and rock, and pleasant glens; the mountains, the water, and all the glorious views which decorated Lochleven? Surely he would love its repose, its agitations, its sublimity; surely he would love its groves, its islands, and its storms. He would roam with her through the lovely glens; they would together visit the falls of Kinlochmore: they would meditate together on Eilan na Corak, and climb the highest points to watch the setting sun, and think upon absent ones. Why had she not a brother to accompany her in her pleasant rambles, and why was he not Sir John Spottiswoode?