.

A DIP INTO THE SPRING'S WATERS.
The night Lord Fleetwood had passed cured him of the wound Carinthia dealt, with her blunt, defensive phrase and her Welshman.

Seated on his coach-box, he turned for a look the back way leading to Esslemont, and saw rosed crag and mountain forest rather than the soft undulations of parkland pushing green meadows or brown copse up the slopes under his eye.

She had never been courted: she deserved a siege.

She was a daughter of the racy highlands.