s the lake towards the
gloomy old Manor-house and the tall spectre palace beside it. Mrs.
Morley is also on the bench, hard at work on her sketch; Fairthorn
prowls through the thickets behind, wandering restless, and wretched,
and wrathful beyond all words to describe. He hears that voice Singing;
he stops short, perfectly rabid with indignation. "Singing," he
muttered, "singing in triumph, and glowering at the very House she
dooms to destruction. Worse than Nero striking his lyre amidst the
conflagration of Rome!" By-and-by Sophy, who somehow or other cannot
sit long in any place, and tires that day of any companion, wanders
away from the lake and comes right upon Fairthorn. Hailing, in her
unutterable secret bliss, the musician who had so often joined her
rambles in the days of unuttered secret sadness, she sprang towards him,
with welcome and mirth in a face that would have lured Diogenes out of
his tub. Fairthorn recoiled sidelong, growling forth, "Don't--you had
better not!"--grinned the most savage grin, showing all his teeth like a
wolf; and as she stood, mute with wonder, perhaps with fright, he slunk
edgeways off, as if aware of his own murderous inclinations, turning
his head more than once, and shaking it at her; then, with the wonted
mystery which enveloped his exits, he was gone! vanished behind a crag,
or amidst a bush, or into a hole--Heaven knows; but, like the lady in
the Siege of Corinth, who warned the renegade Alp of his approaching
end, he was "gone."

Twice again that day Sophy encountered the enraged musician; each time
the same menacing aspect and weird disappearance.

"Is Mr. Fairthorn ever a little-odd?" asked Sophy timidly of George
Morley.

"Always," answered George, dryly.

Sophy felt relieved at that reply. Whatever is habitual in a man's
manner, however unpleasant, is seldom formidable. Still Sophy could not
help saying: "I wish poor Sir Isaac were here!"

"Do you?" said a soft voice behind her; "and pray, who is Sir Isaac?"

The speaker was Darrell, who had come forth with the resolute intent to
see more of Sophy, and make himself as amiably social as he could. Guy
Darrell could never be kind by halves.

"Sir Isaac is the wonderful dog you have heard me describe," replied
George.

"Would he hurt my doe if he came here?" asked Darrell.

"Oh, no!" cried Sophy; "he never hurts anything. He once found a wounded
hare, and he brought it in his mouth to us so tenderly, and seemed so