y, have not I?--but I am afraid we are a little late--eh, Mrs.
Huntley? I hope we have not kept you long."

"_Is_ it late?" she replies, with a smile and a fine hypocrisy--for she
_looks_ hungry--"I did not know; we have been quite happy!"

Roger has risen, and is coming to help me down, but I say, crossly, "Do
not, please; Algy manages best!" Algy, however, has no intention of
helping anybody down. He has helped _himself_ down; and, without a word
or a look to any of his fellow-travellers, has thrown himself down on
the heather at Mrs. Huntley's feet, and is relieving his mind by audible
animadversions on our late triumphal progress. I am therefore left to
the tender mercies of the grooms; at least, I should have been, if Mr.
Musgrave had not taken pity on me, and guided my uncertain feet and the
petticoats, which Zephyr is doing his playful best to turn over my head,
down the steep declivity of the ladder. This, as you may guess, does not
help to restore my equanimity. However, I am down now, on firm ground;
and, at least, we are rid of the dust. My eyes are still full of grit,
but I suppose they will get over that. I turn them disconsolately about.

On a fine sunny day--with butterflies hovering over the heather-flowers,
and bees sucking honey from the gorse--with little mild airs playing
about, and a torquoise sky shining overhead--it might be a spot on which
to lie and dream dreams of paradise; but _now_! The sun has finally
retired, and hid his sulky face for the day; the heather is over; and,
though the gorse is not, yet it gives no fragrance to the raw air. All
over the great rolling expanse there is a heavy, leaden look, caught
from the angry heavens above. The great clouds are gathering themselves
together to battle; and the mighty wind, with nothing to check its
progress, is sweeping over the great plain, and singing with eerie, loud
mournfulness.

I shudder.

"Where are the Scotch firs?" (I say, querulously, to Mr. Parker, who by
this time had joined me); "you said there were plenty of them! where are
they?"

"_Where?_" (looking cheerfully round), "oh, _there_!" (pointing to where
one lightning-riven little wreck bends its sickly head to the gale).
"Ah! I see there is only _one_, after all. I thought that there had been
more."

My heart sinks. Is that one withered, scathed little stick to be our
sole protection against the storm, so evidently quickly coming up?

"Fine view, is not it?" pursues my co