Three or four hundred yards along the wooded path which led from the Castle to the wild hills was a shallow lake. It was formed by a number of tiny streams that trickled down from the mountains. Small wonder was it to find that an artist had erected his easel in this picturesque place. It was indeed an ideal spot, in which nature attained to great majesty and perfection, and the August evening matched it. Hardly a cloud ringed the noble head of Gwydr in the middle distance.
A glance in passing at the artist’s canvas rendered it clear to Cheriton and Miss Burden that the painter was not really so much absorbed in the scenery as he ought to have been. It seemed that a youthful, yellow-haired, blue-eyed nymph, whose physical proportions were yet not exactly those of a fairy, was standing barefooted in the lake. Her dress, which was torn in at least twenty-four places, was kilted up just out of reach of the water. In one hand she held a collection of the fauna and flora of Lake Dwygy; by means of the other she was seeking diligently to add to their number. The yellow hair was tumbled all about her extremely frank and sunburnt countenance. The sleeves of a sorely rent and bedraggled garment were tucked up to the elbows; and a remarkably characteristic form of headgear, preserving the outward appearance of a cucumber basket, sagged about her ears in a preposterously becoming manner.
Cheriton was a rather short-sighted man. Therefore he is to be excused for falling into a natural error.
“A naiad, I perceive,” said he, with his great air.
Muffin was by no means abashed by the courtliness of my lord. She made a sort of courtesy, which had quite an eighteenth-century savor about it in its quaintness, its dignity, its grace, and its simplicity. Unfortunately, however, the performance of it involved the hem of her garments in the watery element.
“I am Muffin,” said she, as though she took a simple pride in that fact. “Did you think I was Goose?”
“A thousand pardons, my dear Miss Muffin,” said Cheriton, although it was tolerably clear that neither Miss Muffin nor himself felt that an apology was demanded by the circumstances.
“They call me Muffin, you know,” said that artless person, wringing the water out of her skirts with wonderful insouciance. “But my name is Elizabeth, really. And you are Lord Something, are you not?”
“My name is Cheriton,” said that nobleman. He scrutinized the naiad with a cool and complacent glance.
“It is so dear of you,” said she, “to be so good to Goose.”