CHAPTER VIII. — THE FOLLY.
There will we sit upon the rocks,
And see the shepherds feed their flocks
By summer rivers, by whose falls
Melodious birds sing madrigals.—Marlowe.
“How does my little schoolfellow get on?” asked Mary Ogilvie, when she had sat down for her first meal with her brother in her summer holidays.
“Much as Ariel did in the split pine, I fancy.”
“For shame, David! I’m afraid you are teaching her to see Sycorax and Caliban in her neighbours.”
“Not I! How should I ever see her! Do you hear from her?”
“Sometimes; and I heard of her from the Actons, who had an immense regard for her husband, who, they say, was a very superior man.”
“It is hardly necessary to be told so.”
“They mean to take lodgings somewhere near here this next month, and see what they can do to cheer her in her present life, which must be the greatest possible contrast to her former one. Do you wish to set out on our expedition before August, Davie? I should like you to see them.”