But the consideration that she invariably extended to her brother’s guest was about to show itself in a very marked manner; and the incident arose in this wise.  One morning, the weather being much too bright and clear for the shallower pools of the Aivron, they thought they would take luncheon with them, and stroll up to the Geinig, where, in the afternoon, the deeper pools might give them a chance, especially if a few clouds were to come over.  Accordingly the three of them went away along the valley, passed over the Bad Step, meandered through the long birch wood, and finally arrived at the little dell above the Geinig Pool, which was Miss Honnor’s favorite retreat.  They had left somewhat late; the sun was shining from a cloudless sky; luncheon would pass the useless time; so Robert got the small parcels and the drinking-cups out of the bag, and arranged them on the warm turf.  It was a modest little banquet, but in the happiest circumstances; for the birch branches above them afforded them a picturesque shelter; and the burn at their feet, attenuated as it was, and merely threading its way down through the stones, flashed diamonds here and there in the light.  And then she was so kind as to thank him again for singing “The Bonnie Earl o’ Moray”—­which had considerably astounded the people assembled at the opening of the Kilfearn Public Hall, or, at least, such of them as did not know that a great singer was among the guests at Strathaivron Lodge.

“I was rather sorry for them who had to follow you,” she said; “they must have felt it was hardly fair.  It was like Donald Dinnie at the Highland Games:  when he has thrown the hammer or tossed the caber, the spectator hardly takes notice of the next competitor.  By the way, I suppose you will be going to the Northern meeting at the end of this month?”

“I am sorry I cannot stay so long, though Lady Adela was good enough to ask me,” he made answer.  “I must go south very soon now.”

“Oh, indeed?” she said.  “That is a pity.  It is worth while being in Inverness then; you see all the different families and their guests; and the balls are picturesque—­with the kilt and tartan.  It is really the wind-up of the season; the parties break up after that.  We come back here and remain until about the middle of October; then we go on to the Braes—­worse luck for me.  I like the rough-and-tumble of this place; the absence of ceremony; the freedom and the solitude.  It will be very different at the Braes.”

“Why shouldn’t you stop on here, then?” he naturally asked.

[Illustration:  “Robert got the small parcels and the drinking-cups out of the bag, and arranged them on the warm turf.”]

“All by myself?” she said.  “Well, I shouldn’t mind the loneliness—­you see, old Robert is left here, and Roderick, too, and one or two of the girls to keep fires on; but I should have nothing to do but read; the fishing is useless long before that time.  And so you are going away quite soon?”