to him as a thing worth thinking about.  But there was something further than all this for which he ought to have been profoundly grateful.  As the long train thundered away into the night, there was no dull misery of farewell weighing heavily upon him; there were no longing fancies wandering wistfully back to a certain house, a certain figure, a pair of too-eloquent eyes.  He dragged no lengthening chain with him on this journey north.  For, notwithstanding his pleasant companionship with Nina, and her constant sympathy with him and her interest in his professional career; notwithstanding the affectionate regard of his cousin Francie, which was none the less sincere that it remained unspoken and only to be guessed at; notwithstanding the somewhat jealous favor which the prima-donna of the New Theatre seemed inclined to bestow on him; notwithstanding the pert coquetries and fascinations of Miss Georgie Lestrange, to say nothing of the blandishments and pettings showered upon him by crowds of ladies of exalted rank, this fortunate young man (so far at least as he was himself aware) was going away to Scotland quite heart-whole.

CHAPTER VII.

IN STRATHAIVRON.

It was still early in the afternoon when Lionel found himself driving along a loftily-winding road overlooking the wide and fertile valley of the Aivron.  Right down below him, and visible through the birch-trees, was the river itself, of a brilliant, clear-shining blue, save where in some more distant sweeps it shone a silver-white; on the other side of the broad strath rose a range of hill fringed along its base with wood, but terminating in the west in far altitudes of bare rock and heather; while now and again he could catch a glimpse of some still more distant peak or shoulder, no doubt belonging to the remote and mountainous region of Assynt.  And there, in the middle of the plain, stood the shooting-lodge for which he was bound—­a long, rambling building or series of buildings, with all sorts of kennels and out-houses and deer-houses attached; and as he was regarding this goal and aim of his journey, and wondering how he was going to get across the swift-flowing stream, behold! a white fluttering of handkerchiefs just outside the porch.  It was a signal to him, he knew; and he returned it more than once—­until, indeed, he discovered that his driver was leaving the road and about to take the horses down a rudely cut track on the hillside.

“I say, isn’t there a bridge anywhere?” he asked; for he was not used to such exploits.

“Aw, no, there’s no bridge,” the old Highland driver said, coolly, as he jammed down the brake.  “But we’ll do ferry well at the ford; the water is not so high the now.”

“And when the water is high, what do they do then?” Lionel asked, as he regarded with some concern the almost vertical pole and the straining harness.

“Aw, well, there uss a boat; and if there’s a spate on the ruvver they can come and go; but not with the heavy things.  Ay, I hef seen tons of coal waiting for them at Invershin for near a fortnight when there wass a heavy spate on the ruvver.  The leddies are so particular nowadays; peat will not do for them for the cooking; naw, they must hef coal.”