"Then you do not reside at Monkscleugh?"
"Within three miles of it."
"I am going down to a shooting-lodge called Glenraven," hoping she would respond by naming her own abode.
"Indeed! I know it; there are some lovely bits about there."
"We shall be neighbors, then?"
"Yes, in a certain sense. Here," she continued, turning over a fresh page of her book, "this is the outline of a very lovely brae and burn close to your abode."
It was only a bit of broken bank; a stream, dotted with stones, lay below, with some mountain ash trees spreading their feathery foliage against the sky; but there were wonderful grace and beauty in the sketch. "This gives you a very faint idea of the reality," she resumed, in a low, soft tone, as if inwardly contemplating it. "The water is clear brown; it foams and chafes round these large black stones, and all sorts of delicious mosses and leaves lurk below the edge; and then ferns wave about the rocks on the brae, and there are gleams of purple heather and tufts of green, green grass, and behind here a great, wild, free hill-side. Oh, it is so quiet and dreamy there—delicious!"
"And this delightful brae is near the lodge?" said Wilton, when she paused, after listening an instant in hopes she would speak on, there was such caressing sweetness in her voice.
"No, not very near; almost a mile away, I think." She evidently knew the place well.
"I hope you will continue to transfer the beauties of Glenraven after I become a dweller there."