t to have been at the rendezvous long ago.

A very handsome man stood beside her. He was of a type the more striking
because specimens of it so rarely found their way in to the fresh,
vigorous, hard-working Colonial society. Remarkably tall, yet perfectly
proportioned, the roughest backwoodsman might have envied his apparent
physical strength; polished in manner to a degree which just, and only
just, escaped effeminacy, the most spoiled beauty might have been proud
of his homage. At present, however, he stood lazily enough, smiling a
little at his hostess' vivacity, exchanging a word or two with her
husband, or following the direction of her eyes along the road. At last
a cloud of dust appeared. "Here they are, I believe," cried Mrs.
Bellairs. "Ah! Maurice, I ought to have sent you, two girls never are to
be trusted." Mr. Percy turned round. He was conscious of a little amused
curiosity about this Backwoods beauty, and, at hearing this second
appeal to Maurice where she was concerned, it occurred to him to look
more attentively than he had done before at the person appealed to. They
were standing opposite to each other, and they had three attributes in
common. Both were tall, both young, and both handsome. Percy was
twenty-eight, and looked more than his age. Maurice was twenty-four, and
looked less. Percy was fair--his features were admirable--his expression
and manner had actually no other fault than that of being too still and
languid. Maurice had brown hair, now a little tossed and disordered (for
he had been busy all morning on board the boat), a pair of brown eyes of
singular beauty, clear and true, and a tolerable set of features, which,
like his manner, varied considerably, according to the humour he
happened to be in. Percy was a man of the world, understood and
respected "les convenances," and never shocked anybody. Maurice knew
nothing about the world, and having no more refined rule of conduct than
the simple one of right and wrong, which is, perhaps, too lofty for
every-day use, he occasionally blundered in his behaviour to people he
did not like. At present, indeed, for some reason, by no means clear to
himself, he returned the Englishman's glance in anything but a friendly
manner.

Bob, the grey pony, trotted down the wharf with his load. Half-a-dozen
idlers rushed forwards to help the two girls out of the carriage, and
into the boat. Bob marched off in charge of a groom; the paddles began
to turn, the f