"'See our oars with feathered spray,'" exclaimed Miss Ponsonby. "We must stay here no longer. I must not be Calypso—fair Eucharis is taken from me. I believe I had better remain only Mary Ponsonby."
"Your sound judgment soon crushes imagination," cried her brother. "As Mary Ponsonby, you are a good-tempered, noisy kind of girl—but Calypso, or Ellen Douglas, would prove a failure."
"No lack of mentor, however," observed Miss Ponsonby, as she nodded her adieus, and took possession of Sir John Wetheral's arm. Captain Ponsonby called after her.
"Mary, I am going to take charge of Lady Wetheral. Tell Mortimer Grey, to take my place."
"But your party will lose such a dominant spirit, my dear Captain Ponsonby," said her ladyship, as Miss Ponsonby waved her hand, in token of assent.
"Disappointment is the lot of mortality," replied Captain Ponsonby, gaily—"I cannot divide myself into two, and my heart is with you."
The party was soon launched upon the lake. Captain Ponsonby insisted upon taking his station between Lady Wetheral and her daughter, and his gay spirits almost whiled Christobelle into cheerfulness. She saw Sir John Spottiswoode enter the first boat with Miss Fanny Ponsonby, but he never turned to cast a glance towards Christobelle—never once came forward to say he hoped she was well and happy. Her heart swelled with sorrow so poignant, that she heeded not Lord Farnborough's anxious arrangements to make her comfortable—his efforts to secure her from the breeze which rose upon the water. She heeded nothing—cared for nothing. Miss Fanny Ponsonby might consider the excursion a party of deep delight, and Lochleven might be to her a remembrance of pleasurable things—but Christobelle felt the whole affair a mockery. Her mother endeavoured to arouse her faculties.
"My love, Lord Farnborough has spoken twice—his lordship hopes you feel no inconvenience from the sun?"
"Thank you, I am very comfortable."