of Dora. She seemed better pleased
with him than I altogether liked, nor could I wonder at it. Walter
Ashley was exactly the man to please a woman of Dora's character. She
was of rather a romantic turn, and about him there was a dash of the
chivalrous, well calculated to captivate her imagination. Although
perfectly feminine, she was an excellent horsewoman, and an ardent
admirer of feats of address and courage, and she had heard me tell her
brother of Ashley's perfection in such matters. On his part, Ashley,
like every one else who saw her, was evidently greatly struck with her
beauty and fascination of manner. I cannot say that I was jealous; I had
no right to be so, for Dora had never given me encouragement; but I
certainly more than once regretted having introduced a third person into
what--honest Jack M'Dermot counting, of course, for nothing--had
previously been a sort of _tete-a-tete_ society. I began to fear that,
thanks to myself, my occupation was gone, and Ashley had got it.

It was the fifth day after our meeting with Walter, and we had started
early in the morning upon an excursion to a neighbouring lake, the
scenery around which, we were told, was particularly wild and beautiful.
It was situated on a piece of table-land on the top of a mountain, which
we could see from the hotel window. The distance was barely ten miles,
and the road being rough and precipitous, M'Dermot, Ashley, and myself,
had chosen to walk rather than to risk our necks by riding the
broken-knee'd ponies that were offered to us. A sure-footed mule, and
indifferent side-saddle, had been procured for Miss M'Dermot, and was
attended by a wild-looking Bearnese boy, or gossoon, as her brother
called him, a creature like a grasshopper, all legs and arms, with a
scared countenance, and long lank black hair hanging in irregular shreds
about his face.

There is no season more agreeable in the Pyrenees than the month of
September. People are very apt to expatiate on the delights of autumn,
its mellow beauty, pensive charms, and suchlike. I confess that in a
general way I like the youth of the year better than its decline, and
prefer the bright green tints of spring, with the summer in prospective,
to the melancholy autumn, its russet hues and falling leaves; its
regrets for fine weather past, and anticipations of bad to come. But if
there be any place where I should be tempted to reverse my judgment, it
would be in Southern France, and especiall