’My uncle, Mr. Silas Ruthyn, you are aware, is my guardian; and this is my cousin, his daughter.’

This was an opportunity of becoming a little lofty, and I improved it.  He raised his hat and bowed to Milly.

’I’m afraid I’ve been very rude and stupid.  Mr. Ruthyn, of course, has a perfect right to—­to—­in fact, I was not the least aware that I had the honour of so near a relation’s—­a—­a—­and what exquisite scenery you have!  I think this country round Feltram particularly fine; and this Bartram-Haugh is, I venture to say, about the very most beautiful spot in this beautiful region.  I do assure you I am tempted beyond measure to make Feltram and the Hall Hotel my head-quarters for at least a week.  I only regret the foliage; but your trees show wonderfully, even in winter, so many of them have got that ivy about them.  They say it spoils trees, but it certainly beautifies them.  I have just ten days’ leave unexpired; I wish I could induce you to advise me how to apply them.  What shall I do, Miss Ruthyn?’

’I am the worst person in the world to make plans, even for myself, I find it so troublesome.  What do you say?  Suppose you try Wales or Scotland, and climb up some of those fine mountains that look so well in winter?’

’I should much prefer Feltram.  I so wish you would recommend it.  What is this pretty plant?’

’We call that Maud’s myrtle.  She planted it, and it’s very pretty when it’s full in blow,’ said Milly.

Our visit to Elverston had been of immense use to us both.

‘Oh! planted by you?’ he said, very softly, with a momentary corresponding glance.  ‘May I—­ever so little—­just a leaf?’

And without waiting for permission, he held a sprig of it next his waistcoat.

’Yes, it goes very prettily with those buttons.  They are very pretty buttons; are not they, Milly?  A present, a souvenir, I dare say?’

This was a terrible hit at the button-maker, and I thought he looked a little oddly at me, but my countenance was so ‘bewitchingly simple’ that I suppose his suspicions were allayed.

Now, it was very odd of me, I must confess, to talk in this way, and to receive all those tender allusions from a gentleman about whom I had spoken and felt so sharply only the evening before.  But Bartram was abominably lonely.  A civilised person was a valuable waif or stray in that region of the picturesque and the brutal; and to my lady reader especially, because she will probably be hardest upon me, I put it—­can you not recollect any such folly in your own past life?  Can you not in as many minutes call to mind at least six similar inconsistencies of your own practising?  For my part, I really can’t see the advantage of being the weaker sex if we are always to be as strong as our masculine neighbours.