Conversation of the stereotyped kind, concerning the weather and so forth, had been long ignored by Falconer and Miss Montgomerie.
'I shall show you some beautiful scenery,' said she, as they shortened their horses' pace to a walk; 'it is of the pastoral kind, of course—for this is the land of dairy-farms and Dunlop cheeses—all hill and dale; and though there are no mountains, we are very proud of Cunninghame,' she added, laughing. 'Do you draw?'
'Yes.'
'And paint?'
'A little, in water-colours.'
'What a pity it is winter-time! Were the season open, we might sketch together, and how delightful that would be!'
Cecil Falconer cordially agreed with her.
'You must know that I love all this place dearly, wood, wold, and water,' exclaimed the girl, with a bright smile, as she looked around her with eyes the greatest beauty of which was their happy expression, girlish truthfulness, and the innocence of a nature that had never sought either to simulate or conceal an emotion; 'but I fear you will deem me very provincial.'
'Why—for loving your native place?'
'Ah! but this is not my native place. I was born far away from here; but since poor papa followed mamma to her grave, I have lived at Eaglescraig, and all the happiest memories of my childhood, and girlhood too, are connected with it; so I love the bold rocky scenery, the great bluffs that overhang the Firth of Clyde, and the green pastoral valleys of Cunninghame. I know every farm and cottage, every coppice and wimpling burn, in the bailiwick.'